


All the Branches on the Tree

by imperfectkreis



Series: Rufus Cloelius [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Rimming, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Being the Dragonborn is exhausting. Rufus Cloelius tries to manage multiple obligations at once and occasionally has a nap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note I've really had to fuck with the Dark Britherhood chronology here. Cicero is thrown out much earlier in the quest chain than in canon and Nazir's contracts come out of order.

The Arch-Mage’s garden is always lit. Beautifully round summonings of Magelight nestled in between mushrooms and herbs and sweet-smelling flowers. The broad, flat frost mirriam leaves dim the glow only somewhat, light shining through thin-celled leaves.

Rufus’ footsteps are silent, a skill he mastered by eighteen. His handler warned him that if he did not learn, he would be dead before the completion of his first solo mission. That may have been a bit of an exaggeration. But Rufus learned, all the same.

Slipping from the atrium, down the hall, towards the nestled bedroom, Rufus keeps his mask over his nose and mouth. The fabric smells sweetly of honeycomb, on the verge of cloying in his nostrils.

The last time he visited the Arch-Mage was six weeks ago. This is the second time he's come to Onmund’s quarters since he assumed the title. Rufus knows he shouldn't do this. He shouldn't come. But he can't stay away. Stendarr, he wants to be here. Not the Arch-Mage’s opulent quarters, but in Onmund’s bed, surrounded by his scent and warmth and compassion. All things Rufus doesn't deserve.

There are so many things Onmund cannot know about him. So, Rufus shares what secrets he can.

Onmund doesn't stir when Rufus enters his bedroom, his dark hair falling over stark-white linens. 

Stripping from his armor, Rufus sets his clothing and leathers aside. His daggers he leaves cushioned on the top of the pile of clothes. He's cold, but he was cold with his armor on too. Debating on whether or not to remove his smalls, Rufus decides that it's fine to remove them. 

If Onmund no longer wants him, the shame will be enough either way.

Rufus lifts the covers, a mesh of fabric and fur and fine threads, and slips in next to Onmund. He tucks his body against Onmund’s chest, only half surprised when Onmund drapes his arm around his waist, pulling them closer together.

“Rufus,” Onmund inhales deeply, smelling Rufus’ hair.

“Onmund,” Rufus lays his hand flats against Onmund’s chest.

Onmund’s voice is still cloudy with sleep, “Hold on.” Reaching over Rufus, Onmund pulls open his bedside drawer. 

Warmth flashes through Rufus’ veins. He can't help but pant in anticipation. Last time he visited, Onmund fucked him twice before morning, whispering affections and promises neither one of them could keep. He digs his nails into Onmund’s chest.

Rufus does not expect Onmund to clumsily slip the Amulet of Mara around his own neck, letting it settle over pale skin. Onmund mumbles into Rufus’ neck, “Marry me?”

This is the second time Onmund asks. And every fiber of Rufus’ being wants to yell, yes, yes, yes. He wants nothing more in this world, save his younger brother’s safety. Rufus wants to give in. To live a life that was never his, filled with happiness and love and security.

“No.”

Onmund doesn't get angry, simply settling his weight back against Rufus, kissing his shoulder, then his neck. “Can't blame me for trying.”

Rufus hates the pained noise he makes in response. 

“Does it bother you?” Onmund asks, “if I wear it?”

Rufus whispers, “No,” tangling his fingers in the bronze chain, “I only wish you would wear it always. So you might find someone who could marry you. Make you happy.” It is why Rufus sent the Amulet at all. So Onmund could be rid of him. But if that were the whole truth, Rufus would not sneak back, under the cover of night, begging Onmund to take him, if only for the hour.

“You're the only one I wish to make myself available,” he squeezes down on Rufus’ narrow waist. “You know I'm already yours.”

Arguing the point gets them nowhere. “I shouldn't have come.”

“You're always welcome here.”

Rufus rolls onto his back, tugging at Onmund’s shoulders so he climbs on top of him, blanketing Rufus’ body with his weight. Grinding up into Onmund’s thigh, Rufus pleads with his body for comfort he doesn't strictly think he deserves.

Onmund runs kisses down Rufus’ jaw, his neck, his sternum, lapping his tongue against goosefleshed skin. It's impossible to get warm this far North. But coming to Winterhold is only a temporary diversion. Rufus must return to Falkreath. It's just that he was so painfully lonely.

He spreads his legs around Onmund’s hips, trying to coax him inside. Rufus tries not to be so impatient, he really does. But ever since they started, he doesn't know how to stop. How to stop his heart from pounding or stop his body from wanting. 

Rufus read many, many books about love and lust and desire. But now he feels them all false, because every time Onmund leaves him wordless.

They're quiet this time, most times. With Onmund rocking into him, chanting sweet affections. All of them might sound silly otherwise, if they were not so aroused. But Rufus pretends that they are tangible, syllables and strings of meaning he can hide away, tuck inside the hidden pockets in his armor. So even when he must do terrible things, he can remember these moments between Onmund’s sheets, Onmund between his thighs.

Rufus wraps his arms around Onmund’s shoulders, keeping their chests close together as he comes, wet and sticky and still full of Onmund’s cock. The reverberations of his fingertip as they ghost away to Rufus’ hip, then his side, slotting his fingers between Rufus’ ribs.

Onmund kisses him when he comes. Then whispers, “Stay,” into his temple. “Don't go.”

He’ll stay a little bit. Just until dawn, then slip away. It will be easier, with Onmund asleep. Then he won't have to dream up words to soothe them both. Rufus tells himself that this is the last time. He's very good at lying to himself. Otherwise, he would never survive.

‘You're a good person, Rufus.’

‘You can be redeemed.’

‘Your actions do not define you.’

‘One day, you'll be happy.”

Onmund stumbles out of bed, bringing back wet cloth to wipe Rufus’ stomach clean. Then another to wipe between his legs. He's so gentle, Rufus almost cries. It could be like this, always.

When Onmund comes back to bed, he drapes his arm around Rufus’ waist, telling him to sleep. He looks so tired.

\--

When Rufus wakes, Onmund isn't there. Looking blearily around the room, Rufus realizes he's oversleep. Stendarr, it's almost noon. He was supposed to leave hours ago, back on the road to Falkreath.

He can still slip away now, without facing Onmund in the daylight. He pulls on his armor, looking around the room for his boots.

There's a platter of food on Onmund’s desk. Butter rolls and fruit and cheese. And next to that, a scribbled note, “Let you sleep, had lecture.”

Rufus can't help but laugh, stuffing grapes into his mouth. Even though Onmund is Arch-Mage, he still attends classes diligently, having not actually yet completed his coursework at the College he now heads.

He eats, because he's hungry, not because he's trying to avoid leaving. Onmund’s quarters don't remotely feel like home, but he feels safe here. Like he can't be touched. Rufus knows that's not really true.

The door opens and Rufus stands up straighter. He doesn't mean to reach for his dagger, but he flits his hand over the pommel.

Onmund makes no excess noise as he comes to the bedroom, another tray of food in his hands. “I didn't know if you'd be up or not.” He squeezes the second tray in next to the first. “I brought tea, and more bread and cheese...I didn't know what else you'd like?”

Rufus feels quite guilty that Onmund would even worry himself over him. He eats meat, sometimes, because it is so hard to avoid in Skyrim. But when he cooks for himself, he never does. “This is more than I need,” Rufus bites into the cheese leftover from breakfast. “I would have been fine,” he says after swallowing. “Could have eaten on the road.”

“Where are you headed?” Onmund asks, breaking apart his own portion of bread and dipping it into the stew. Neither of them bother to sit down, eating over Onmund’s desk.

“Falkreath,” Rufus can at least share that much. “Then, I don't know.” The Blades think he should return to High Hrothgar. There is a Shout he must learn, and none of them know where to find the words. Really though, Rufus is loathed to ask the Greybeards anything. Not that the Blades are any better.

Onmund chews and swallows before continuing, “Falkreath is far.”

“It is.”

“Do you need help?”

Rufus is stern with his reply, “No.” Onmund has responsibilities here at the College. And as much as he may want to shirk them, many, many people depend on his leadership here. Often times he writes of feeling overwhelmed, of letting others down, of not being qualified for the position. But Rufus suspects that Onmund only worries because he cares very deeply about the College and sets unrealistic expectations for himself.

Even if Onmund could leave the College, the political implications if he were found out? If someone could connect Rufus and Onmund together? It would be disastrous. Some level of familiarity cannot be avoided. They were seen together several times, including the Thalmor Ambassador’s reception. But that was months ago now, enough that they could deny everything. And Onmund wasn't Arch-Mage then.

“Can't blame me for trying?” Onmund smiles and Rufus aches.

“Suppose not.”

\--

Astrid believes Rufus killed Cicero. It is what Rufus said to be true. He traveled to Dawnstar, entered the Sanctuary there, and killed the Keeper.

There is little reason for Astrid to doubt Rufus’ story. She has no pretensions regarding what sort of man he is.

The Dark Brotherhood lucked out, really, because their newest recruit, Astrid’s prized disciple, arrived on their doorstep, lovingly deadened and fully trained, courtesy of the Thrushes. A tidy little business out of Cyrodiil City, exchanging death for coin, sculpted Rufus from sixteen to twenty-two. Took a boy full of anger and dread and made a beautiful assassin. Astrid must know how blessed she is.

Rufus knows now why the Divines played with him so. He feigns agnosticism, even now, but he knows he is chosen. What is so viciously cruel, is that the petty battle between Divines must be played out raucously in his body, in his mind. 

The Night Mother says she was first. She whispers to him often. No, not only contracts, but she retells Rufus his own history.

_Don't you know, Pretty Thrush? I knew you before the coarse birds stole you. Snapping you up with their fragile talons. I saw you when you were a boy. You held the hand of the one who bore you as she walked the roads of Cheydinhal. I felt you, even then. Your tiny boots, so soft against the stones. I felt them, Pretty Thrush._

_Did you feel me?_

Rufus tries to pay close attention as Narzir explains the contract. Someone or another holed up near Whiterun. It should be an easy in and out job. The fort is held by bandits. It's up to Rufus how he wants to get inside. That's not a decision Rufus can make without first seeing what he's up against. Going alone means he has no one to impress, or horrify.

_Pretty Thrush, Mother whispers, I have a task for you. One that you cannot refuse. The culmination of your very being. You were born for this purpose._

_The one who bore you wore a brown tunic at Cheydinhal, with dark breeches down to her ankles. Because it was modest, her attire did not betray her status and wealth._

_She told you to stay quiet, so you would not be in the way, while she spoke to men and women more important than you._

_You kept your lips sewn shut, even as I spoke to you. You never breathed a word. I have wondered, in the few years we’ve been parted, if you even remember my voice?_

Rufus must speak to Astrid before he leaves for Fort Greymoor. She wishes to keep track of his comings and goings, as much as she can. She fears his power, like she feared Cicero. She is right to be afraid. The Night Mother will not speak to her. So it is better, in her eyes, that the Mother favors no one.

_I spoke to you for hours, Pretty Thrush, that week your mother spent working, I sang your lullabies. Even then, I knew how strong you'd be, how capable. There was no other choice. I had to have you._

_And now, after so many years apart, we finally embrace. I can hold you to my chest and tell you how much you are loved._

Rufus stalks past Astrid, heading instead for the Night Mother’s coffin.

Her room stands in wait, unattended since Cicero’s departure. If the she misses the Keeper, she stays silent on the issue. 

Rufus opens her casket, well aware that Astrid has followed him. She hovers behind him like a stormcloud, ready to burst open. As much as she may hate Rufus for his ‘gift,’ she cannot challenge him directly, not like she did with Cicero.

The Night Mother smells of dry rot. Rufus pulls his mask over his nose and mouth. Between the fine layers of fabric, he inhales the sweet scent of shredded comb, warding back the stench.

He steps into the coffin, shutting the door behind him. Too tall to stand up straight, he hunches back against the door, wrapping his arms around the Night Mother. Though he can hear her in his mind, he cannot speak back. Not without his mouth, kept shut for so long.

She's right. Rufus never told anyone of her voice. In time, he forgot. But he remembers now. Everything came back to him, along the road from Whiterun to Windhelm, where he first saw Cicero.

He keeps his face as far from her breast as he can manage, but the coffin is not designed for two. “Tell me then.”

“Volunruud,” she whispers against his mind, slicking through his thoughts. “Amaund Motierre, he has performed the Black Sacrament. So long it has been, since my authority has been properly honored.”

“That is not what I wished to hear,” Rufus’ grip around Mother tightens. She cannot feel the bite of his nails or warmth of his breath. But, perhaps she hears his desperation. If she is in his mind, can she feel it spin? The dizzy sickness of responsibility?

“Oh, Pretty Thrush. I love you so. And I always have. You will understand soon, why you were the only one in my heart. Speak with Motierre.”

Sick with himself, Rufus pushes against the coffin lid, trying to force his way back out. The latch gives, throwing open the door and he tumbles backwards, catching himself before he can crash into Astrid.

Her eyes narrow, “What were you doing, Cloelius? Did she speak to you again? Is there a contract?”

Astrid does not understand. She does not understand how easily Rufus and Mother share words. She does not understand the only important vow is that between the Night Mother and himself.

He lies.

“No, still no contracts.”

Given Astrid’s reaction, Rufus wishes he had told no one that he hears the Night Mother’s voice. But Cicero would have known, would have found out. And Cicero is very bad at keeping quiet. 

Rufus pulls his mask down before leaving the Sanctuary.

\--

Fort Greymoor, High Hrothgar, Volunruud.

Fort Greymoor, High Hrothgar, Volunruud.

Rufus repeats the order of his obligations. None of them take him to Winterhold.

Fort Greymoor, High Hrothgar, Volunruud.

He spends a few hours sleeping at his house in Whiterun. It is not enough, but it must be enough. His bed is cold and the dwelling empty. The housecarl, Lydia, for whom he has no use, stays at Dragonsreach, not here. It is by her own volition, but Rufus prefers this arrangement as well.

It is raining in the early morning light as he heads towards the Fort. It has been long held by bandits. Jarl Balgruuf doesn't have the guards to retake the Fort himself.

Jarl Balgruuf is a good man. Logical, reasonable, and kind. 

Like Rufus, he says he does not want to take sides in this War. If pressed, if his hand is forced, Rufus believes he will choose the Empire. Because he is logical, reasonable, and kind.

The Jarls if all Nine Holds have courted Rufus’ favor. Only Balgruuf has succeeded.

It would be simple, for Rufus to take Fort Greymoor for the Jarl. Bandits are often drunk, almost always careless, and, without fail, poorly trained. Rufus could do it. Kill them all, leave the Fort empty, but for corpses. Balgruuf’s people could simply walk through the gates. Victors without blood on their hands. Rufus would soak it all.

But there would be questions. So many questions. And Rufus’ answers are all lies. Even the ones that are true. 

He will only kill the mark, fulfil the contract.

There is no need to wait for nightfall. Bandits are careless, bandits are intoxicated, bandits do not watch their backs. 

He enters the Fort through a rear locked gate, picking the tumbler open with practiced ease. When he first learned to disengage locks, he used to listen to the pins as they scraped against the plug. Now he can feel the lock fall apart like overripe fruit, even though his gloves.

Water pools up to his knees as he walks the dark tunnel towards the dungeons. The ceiling is low and he has to slouch, his tunic soaking up vile water as well. His mask keeps the smell out, but still, he would like to be done with this task as soon as possible.

Rufus needs little light to carve his path. Not that he can see in the dark, but he can feel the bend of the walls around him, how the stones echo with footsteps of bandits over his head. The water creates subtle noises too, as it sloshes around Rufus’ body, striking against the walls. 

At the end of the tunnel is a ladder, leading upwards to a hatch. Rufus stands still, listening for noise above. Two men, joking. One is a smaller elf, Bosmer or Dunmer, his voice fine and reedy. The other is a man, Rufus cannot tell more than that. He is larger than the elf, by perhaps thirty pounds. He wears soft boots. The elf wears flat shoes. They are unlikely to be armored. Rufus does not want to kill them.

He waits until he hears chairs scratch against the stone floor. One, then the other, the man and mer take their seats. They play dice, bone striking against the wooden table. From the rattle, Rufus knows neither one face the hatch from the sewer.

Out of his bag he draws a cloth, ordinary in every way. Except when he presses the fabric to the hatch’s metal hinge, the muffle enchantment does its work.

The hatch itself is not locked. All Rufus must do is open it. The hinge silenced, he pushes up and out with his other hand, keeping his balance on the ladder. The hatch opens and he is careful not to let it fall against the floor. Once it is open, he listens again, before ascending the final steps and crawling up into the dungeon.

They will not shoot him in the back without warning. Bandits always shout first. They cannot hold back their surprise. Keeping the muffling cloth to the hinge, he closes the hatch back up, then slips from the dungeons, heading up the stairs.

The bandits who have taken Fort Greymoor are opportunists, few in number and careless with their prize. Rufus moves through the keep quickly, quietly, staying out of sight. It is better for them all.

He has come to kill the name “Agnis.”

The name he finds alone in her room. Agnis has only just woken for the day. The name is attached to a Nord woman, old but far from frail. Her face is nearly lipless, having been lost long ago to deep lines. 

She stares at Rufus when he closes the door behind him. The sound will go unnoticed.

“Come now,” her voice is steady, “I have work to do, you lout.”

It would have been easier for Rufus to kill her and not see her face. Tired, blue eyes and still-pink cheeks. It is not his role to question why she is to die.

He says nothing, stepping forward faster than she can scream and slitting her throat. She tenses, then goes limp in his arms. He takes the time to put her to bed, but he does not fuss with the sheets. Only using one corner to wipe the blood from his blade.

High Hrothgar, Volunruud.

There is no time to go to Winterhold. Even if there were, he should stay away. 

\--

Arngeir asks Rufus why he has come. Rufus asks only for a bed. The rest of his business at High Hrothgar can wait until tomorrow. The old man says nothing more, stepping aside so Rufus may make his way to the dormitories.

There are more empty beds than full ones. So few of the Greybeards yet remain, having long ago died off without suitable replacements. Rufus tries to imagine High Hrothgar’s halls full. As of now, they are only quiet.

The Greybeards never smile at him. He is not who they expected. That he is not a Nord is perhaps enough. That they always smell blood on his tunic is worse. Even though the others may only speak with the Thu’um, Rufus knows well enough their contempt.

He wonders if they wished for it to be Stormcloak. If, somehow, they once were foolish enough to think they had a choice in who their Dovahkiin would be. Perhaps Rufus is the punishment for their hubris.

Rufus’ fate is not with these men. They resent him for it. But he was never theirs to keep.

Stripping from his clothes, Rufus tumbles into the narrow cot, rolling until he faces the stone wall. This is better than watching Wulfgar sleep in the semi-light. He stares into the sea of gray, trying to empty his mind. Trying to sleep.

Though the Greybeards seldom speak and, even then, only in the Dragon’s tongue, High Hrothgar is deafeningly noisy. The wind whips around the sanctuary, roaring through the archways. Rufus can hear water, dripping, dripping, always. Drafts seeping in between the stones. He can hear the rhythm of each and every Graybeard breathing.

Screwing his eyes shut, Rufus tries to think of something else. A simple comfort. He thinks of his brother’s stormy gray eyes, so much lighter than his own. When he is done in Skyrim, truly finished, he will go back to Cyrodiil City. He will take his brother from the Thrushes. He will not hand him over to the Dark Brotherhood.

He needs another plan. Like this, he will never sleep

Rufus rolls from his side onto his back, covering his eyes with his hands. This was simpler, before he had the Thu’um. When he was only an assassin, looking to conjure fear in the Thalmor. It is why he came to Skyrim, to disrupt Thalmor operations as much as possible. But now? Now he is in over his head and terrified. Killing is so easy. This? This is not.

He will never be free of his voice, the Mother, or Skyrim.

Where might his brother go?

He thinks of taking the boy to the College. There, he might be safe. With his light eyes and fairer complexion, Cassius is unlikely to be mistaken for Rufus’ brother. They will select a different patronymic for him. Not ‘Cloelius,’ which Rufus has shared too freely. And not ‘Tullius.’ Never again, ‘Tullius.’ Though it is impossible anyone could recognize Cassius as the General’s nephew. He was so young when their parents died.

General Tullius looked Rufus in the eyes at Helgen and did not know him. He will never recognize the younger boy.

Onmund could watch over Cassius, make sure he learns beautiful things, magics, not murders. But it is all a pipe dream. Installing Cassius at the College only creates one more link in the chain between Rufus and Onmund. And no one can know. Never. Never. He will not let his sins seep across Onmund’s skin. Onmund is too important now to be implicated. All well and good to be rumored as the Dragonborn’s lover.

Another thing entirely to be tied to the Dark Brotherhood.

And the College is on fragile ground already. Nothing can be done. Nothing can jeopardize Onmund’s position. Nothing, nothing.

Rufus wants to scream. His skin itches and the Graybeards breathe and tomorrow he must learn how to Shout down the dragons from the sky. He has to learn the words to make them bend. 

Then, Volunruud. 

What comes after?

Not Winterhold.

Don't go.

Rufus moves his hand from his eyes to his chest, gripping over his sternum.

Onmund promised to wear the amulet again. Only for Rufus. As many times as it takes.

It doesn't matter if the Greybeards hear him cry, because they have no words to express sympathy, and their light eyes are only ever disgusted with him anyway.

\--

Rufus wakes mid-morning, his stomach protesting its emptiness. He cannot remember falling asleep.

From his pack he pulls bread and two apples. He sits crosslegged on the bed and eats his meal, caring little if he scatters crumbs. The Greybeards are less than meticulous in their cleanliness. 

Arngeir comes to him as he is working through the second apple, biting around the core and sucking the last of sweet juice out of tough, tattered pulp. Again, Arngeir asks, “Why have you come?”

Of course there must be a reason, because there are beds more comfortable and more convenient than these.

Rufus wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “I need to learn the Shout used to defeat Alduin,” he does not honeycoat his request. 

Arngeir’s expression sours, “Where did you learn of that? Who told you?”

Still seated on the bed, Rufus is dwarfed by Arngeir looming over him. Though, when standing, Rufus is taller. Finished with his meal, Rufus tosses the apple scraps into an otherwise empty bowl on the nearest table. 

Standing at full height makes him feel more capable. Though Arngeir is in his robes, Rufus is bare except for his smallclothes. Still, his confidence keeps him armored. The Greybeards will not deny him this. “The Blades.”

Arngeir scowls, “Of course, they are fond of meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds.”

Rufus shrugs his shoulders, “Does it matter? My allegiance to them is fleeting. I need only to complete my mission.” Reaching for his tunic, he starts to dress.

“There is no mission,” Arngeir openly mocks. “You were to stay here. To learn the way of the voice. But instead you use your blood to bleed others dry. You interfere. Of course you take comfort in the Blades.”

“I take comfort in myself.” He hops up and down to pull on his tight fitting trousers.

“Atheist,” Arngeir accuses. 

Rufus is not. But he won't waste his breath on this any longer. “You will teach me the Shout. Or instruct me how to find it.”

“The Blades have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom,” Arngeir continues on. “And you have run to them with open arms. You will allow yourself to be used like this? A tool for the Blades, after all we have taught you?”

The Greybeards have taught him nothing, save for a few harsh words that claw at the inside of his throat as they escape. They shred his windpipe and leave him empty. 

“You would rather I be your tool instead?” He must sit back down to lace his boots.

“This Shout was used once before,” Arngeir says gravely, “and yet, here we are again. Nothing has changed.”

“And likewise, I cannot do nothing.” Oh, how Rufus wishes that option were on the table. To leave Skyrim, all of Tamriel, to her fate? But Rufus cannot abandon his Empire. He refuses.

“Have you considered that Alduin was not meant to be defeated? Those who defeated him in ancient times only postponed the day of reckoning. They did not stop it. If the world is meant to end, so be it. Let it die and be reborn.”

Rufus refuses! He will not be beat back by petty, loathsome Divines. 

“I will find the words,” Rufus hisses between bared teeth, standing again, at his full height. “I will Shout down a God. I will not go whimpering into the night, a broken thing.”

“And I will not help you until you return to the path of wisdom,” Arngeir concludes.

Grabbing his pack, Rufus stomps away. He will not be mocked like this. Again and again these men and women stand in his way, against their own self interests. He cannot please them all. He cannot please any of them.

Running towards the Seven Thousand Steps, Rufus still hears the Thu’um: “Arngeir, Rok los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rok fen tinvaak Paarthurnax." 

Rufus does not halt his descent.

Volunruud.


	2. Chapter 2

Rufus arrives at Volunruud at night. The place is eerie, as all burial sites are. But he is a strange creature too, so he does not fear the dead. But lacking fear and not feeling the chill along his skin are separate matters entirely. He pulls up his mask before descending the winding stairs to the crypt’s entrance. 

The Night Mother gave him little to work from. A place, Volunruud, and a name, Amaund Motierre, likely Breton. At least the name suggests as much. But he doesn't know exactly where to find the man.

The door swings open with little resistance. Motierre, likely, is already inside. Rufus looks for small traces in the lamplight, trying to follow the client’s path. Dust kicks up around his feet, clinging to his dark breeches. 

He is not far down the tunnel before he hears voices, two men in simple conversation. Halting, Rufus listens for signs of danger, and finds none. He hears one voice speak of the Black Sacrament, this must be Motierre. And though Rufus has a revolting, complicated love for Mother, he knows she would never direct him into danger.

He is her champion, her chosen one, her Listener. Whether he likes it, or not.

Swallowing, Rufus pushes down the thought, the one he increasingly believes to be true. While the Thrushes carried out his parents’ murder, using their blades and simple cunning to slit their throats, it is Mother who willed it. So he would be prepared for her. He forces the bile back.

Rufus knocks at the chamber door, as if he is a polite guest, and not a summoned shadow. In truth, he is both.

It is a sturdy looking Imperial who opens the door, a greatsword slung over his back. He wears the red of the Empire and sturdy, provisioned boots. Panic rises in Rufus’ throat. If this were a trap, but no, he can smell ash and blood in the room, and a smaller Breton with dark, fluffy hair peeks out from behind the soldier. 

“You've come,” Montierre gasps, “you've actually come. That dreadful Black Sacrament thing, it worked.” He puts his hand in front of his face, “it's really worked. Rexus, step aside.”

Rexus looks Rufus up and down, though Rufus stands several inches taller. Stepping aside, Rexus allows him to enter the room. Rufus leaves his mask over his face. Better, this way, harder to realize he is the Dragonborn. Though, that is the least of his problems.

Rufus drops the pitch of his voice, his lips pressing against his mask as he speaks, “The Night Mother has heard your plea, Montierre.” Staring straight ahead, Rufus holds his gaze.

Montierre speaks with false-confidence. Rufus can feel the tremor in his voice, the shaking of his hands that he tries to keep balled into fists, drawing them back up into his fine robes. He is a man unaccustomed to the bodily nature of death and dying. The graves around him make him ill. What he is about to request of Rufus makes him ill.

“Yes, um, I won't waste your time, sir?”

Rufus gives him no name.

“I'd like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. And I daresay, the work I am offering you has more significance than anything your organization has experienced in centuries,” Montierre wears his own sort of mask. One where he is a braver man than this. Rufus won't begrudge him. 

Gesturing for Montierre to continue, Rufus refuses to say anything more.

“As I mentioned, there are a number of targets. And you will find the manner of their eliminations quite varied. Someone of your disposition may very well find it enjoyable,” Montierre laughs.

He has no fucking idea who Rufus is. His assumption is a cruel one. That Rufus would enjoy this, take pleasure in the deaths of others. This is how he survives. This is how his brother survives. Nothing more.

Were Rufus not a Thrush before, the Listener now, he would still be this monster, that the Nords call Dovahkiin. He would have Dragon’s blood in his veins. He would still kill, wouldn’t he? For the Mother, not for the Mother. In the end, the results are no different. Rufus does not wish to pretend he is a good man. But neither will he admit to being depraved.

Clearing his throat, Montierre continues, “But you should know, these killings are all a means to an end. For they pave the way for the most important target. The real reason I am here, speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of,” he pauses for effect, quite pleased with himself now, “the Emperor.”

Montierre continues to speak.

Rufus hears none of it. Only the sound of crashing waves. Why does he hear the roar of the sea? He cannot breathe.

This, this he cannot do.

Rufus loves his home. He loves his Empire.

He cannot. He cannot.

His heart screams inside his chest. He will not let Ulfric and his bloody Stormcloaks rip Skyrim away from the Empire. He will not let the Thalmor seep like a black plague into healing wounds. He will not betray his Emperor. Rufus will not murder his Emperor.

Rexus, Rexus in Imperial Red, hands him a roll of parchment and an amulet. Montierre still speaks. When he falls silent, Rufus steals away without another word, shoving the amulet and parchment into his pack.

Only when he is in the open air, iron doors slammed shut behind him, does Rufus drop to the cold, hard ground. Pulling his mask down, he retches onto the floor, choking until his stomach empties. He can feel the acid drag against the tender skin of his throat and he is in agony.

Winterhold.

\--

Rufus bides his time in The Frozen Hearth until nightfall, making pleasant conversation with the serving boy. He makes a careful point of saying that he will depart with the last carriage of the evening, bound South, to Whiterun.

But Rufus does not go to Whiterun. His head cloudy with drink, he walks towards the College, his hands tucked into the pockets of his traveling cloak.

Carefully, he avoids meeting anyone as he crosses the courtyard, singularly set on reaching the Arch-Mage’s quarters. He ascends the stairs silently, pulling down his hood as it becomes too warm to tolerate.

Onmund’s door is locked. Instead of knocking, Rufus coaxes the tumbler open. The lamps inside are dim. Onmund may already be asleep.

Three weeks. He only managed to stay away three weeks this time.

He finds Onmund’s bed empty. Heaving with frustration, Rufus strips from his armor, tossing it aside. Though his hands feel slick with blood, he knows they are unstained. Climbing into Onmund’s bed, Rufus tucks himself between the sheets to wait.

When he falls to sleep, Rufus does not know. But he wakes to Onmund, sitting on the side of the bed, already undressed, the Amulet of Mara around his neck.

Reaching forward with long fingers, Rufus rubs against the charm. “What if I said yes?” Rufus chokes.

Onmund knows that Rufus’ question does not amount to affirmation, because he does not smile. He is pensive as he decides what to say. Running his fingers along Rufus’ side, feeling out each rib, he answers, “Firstly, I'd bundle you off to Riften as soon as possible, before you change your mind.”

Rufus laughs lightly in response. But Onmund is still quite serious.

“Whatever you wish, Rufus, I would keep you here, care for you to the best of my ability. Or I would take you away, to someplace we cannot be disturbed, or I would wait for you, as you continue with your quest,” his eyes are so earnest. “My only desire is for you to be mine, as I am already yours.”

Swallowing hard, Rufus’ request falls from his lips, “Come to bed,” he finishes, “You know I am yours.”

It is an easy thing, for Onmund to slip in beside him. Though he was quite tired, Rufus is starkly awake now, curling into the heat of Onmund’s body, battling back the cold of the room.

Rufus cannot help but think he is awfully greedy, desperate in his desires. There are names, for women and men like him. He has read them in books and heard them in taverns. Because of the flirtatious way he speaks when trying to carve out information from strangers, he knows those words have been stamped to him before. Because he is young, smiles a great deal in the bright tavern lamps, and drops suggestions that are never promises.

But Onmund is the only one to ever touch him, to know. None of the names ever stung Rufus’ ears. Not really. But, maybe, on some level, they were true. Because all he wishes in this moment is to touch and be touched.

Kissing Onmund’s neck, open-mouthed and wet, Rufus sucks and teases with his teeth until Onmund gasps. He is careful to pull back, short of marking, but in the dimness of the room, he can still see the dark welt against Onmund’s pale skin. It will fade quickly. Or Onmund will magic it away.

Onmund takes his hands to Rufus’ chest, grazing down the center, swooping back up to tease his nipples, squeezing between his thumb and forefinger until Rufus’ whines. Ducking his head beneath the sheets, Onmund laps his tongue against one dark nipple, teasing it until it is spit-soaked and hard, before rolling Rufus onto his back, so he may do the same to the other side.

Straddling over Rufus’ hips, Onmund holds him down, not with any intention, but it frees Onmund’s hands, gives him better access to Rufus’ form. His cock, half hard already, settles against the hollow of Rufus’ stomach. Rufus’ own cock straining against the small of Onmund’s back. 

Rufus keeps his eyes open, running his hands down Onmund’s sides, over his soft stomach, though he knows Onmund is harder than he appears. Only he doesn’t work the fields any longer. He keeps paperwork and schedules and argues with bureaucrats and wrangles professors. The weight suits him, though. Everything suits him. Everything, but Rufus. 

Latching onto Rufus’ mouth, Onmund kisses him breathless, drawing wet, vivid sounds between their parted lips. Rufus tries to grind up, against Onmund’s back. He always loses his patience first. But Onmund seems content enough to lick into Rufus’ mouth, tease at his fuller bottom lip. When he finally does pull back, he looks in awe. “You should say yes.” The Amulet hangs heavy between their bodies.

“You know who I am.”

This time Onmund does smile, pressing softer, chaster kisses along Rufus’ jaw and neck. “I do, as much as you have shared with me.”

“It could ruin the College, if people know.”

“Then we keep them from knowing,” Onmund says quite firmly. “You are known as the Dragonborn. That can only help us here,” there are heavy circles around Onmund’s light eyes. No one outside the College knows, really knows, what occurred with the Eye of Magnus. How close they were to a catastrophic event. If they did, the Nords would not sing Onmund’s praises, for having acted so decisively, so bravely. Instead they would place the blame squarely on the College’s shoulders, Onmund’s shoulders. They would take it as the final straw to see the College dismantled. 

“Onmund,” and in a moment of weakness, Rufus almost tells him. Onmund already knows so much. He knows Rufus’ name, and that he hears the Night Mother’s voice. What is one more truth between them? But to tell Onmund that he has been tasked with assassinating the Emperor...would Onmund even stop him?

Onmund did not give into Ulfric Stormcloak. Like Rufus, he does not support this war. But neither has he made his politics clear. Not as Rufus has, that despite his refusal thus far to wear Legion Red, he is dedicated to her cause.

Rufus will not do it. He will not. Mother will find a new champion. She has chosen wrong with him. Will not. Will not.

“Rufus?” Onmund responds when Rufus says nothing more. 

“Want to feel you,” he wraps his arms around Onmund’s waist, running his fingers along his back. 

Leaning over, close to Rufus’ ear, he whispers, “How? Whatever you want, Rufus, I will give.”

Such a dangerous proposition. 

“Let me ride you.”

Onmund draws a shaky breath against Rufus’ neck, “If that would please you.”

Rufus nods.

Rolling back to the mattress, Onmund continues to skirt his fingers along Rufus’ waist as they switch positions, Rufus climbing on top instead. Rufus suspects Onmund enjoys how thinly built he is, despite his height. That Onmund likes how can span Rufus’ waist with the length of his fingers, though they do not reach all the way around. 

Rufus reaches for the bedside drawer, finding the bottle of lubricant Onmund keeps there. The bottle is new, unmarred by fingerprints. He recognizes it right away. “Oh,” Rufus gasps, uncapping the bottle. “It’s from…”

“That shop in Cyrodiil City, yes,” Onmund smiles below Rufus. “I ordered a few bottles. You should take one with you.” 

The oil smells just slightly sweet. Not as overpowering as the honeycomb in Rufus’ mask. Fainter, but still warm and comforting. Rufus likes the scent a great deal. “Give me your hand?” Rufus asks.

Onmund takes one hand from Rufus’ hip, holding it out so they can spread the oil over both of their hands. Lifting his weight off of Onmund’s stomach, he spreads his knees further apart in the sheets, far enough for Onmund to reach around, sliding his forefinger inside Rufus’ hole. 

Rufus swears he can feel every knuckle as it slides inside him, deeper, deeper, until the digit joins Onmund’s palm. Onmund fans out his other fingers, letting them brush against Rufus’ skin. Taking one finger is easy enough, though it has been some weeks. Rufus is already greedy for more. 

Whining Onmund’s name is enough to get him to draw back out, slotting a second finger against the first. The sensation finally borders on something satisfying, something concrete, as Onmund starts to stretch him. 

Rufus keeps his hands planted on Onmund’s chest, fingers splayed out on either side of the Amulet. It would be so, blissfully easy to say yes. 

With the third finger Rufus feels himself ready, reaching into the sheets for the bottle of oil and slicking his hand again. Reaching behind his back, he grabs hold of Onmund’s cock, moistening it with three firm strokes.

Onmund groans, “Careful,” drawing his fingers back out of Rufus. 

Rufus shifts further down the bed, holding himself over the head of Onmund’s cock. He keeps it firmly in his grip as he starts to sink, willing himself not to tense. The tip breaches him, easily enough, opening him in a way that must look obscene. Rufus sinks down, letting the tension ease from his thighs as he settles his weight onto Onmund instead, filling himself with Onmund’s cock. He tries to keep his eyes open, but it is difficult, the way sensation rushes in. Feeling and hearing the ring of Onmund’s breathing, and seeing the way his face flushes, it’s all too much at once. So Rufus closes his eyes until Onmund is fully sheathed inside him.

Only then does he open again, smiling fondly. He is so fond of this. But in that fondness, he is hungry too. Rufus starts to move his hips.

Onmund holds him around his hips, not directing, only sharing warmth. His hips start bucking back up, into Rufus, trying to keep them joined together as Rufus sets the pace. He feels wonderfully full, out of control despite the position. Rufus scratches his nails down Onmund’s chest, gasping when Onmund digs the pads of his fingers into his back.

Tipping forward, Rufus feels his hair come loose, a curtain around his face. Onmund stares back up at him. They say nothing. Rufus leans far enough to kiss Onmund, to try and say everything he feels with an exchange of lips and teeth and tongues. Because his tongue is always too heavy for speech. He is too used to be spoken to. His own words landing on deaf ears.

But Onmund listens. He has always listened. His grip around Rufus loosens, hands coming to spread over Rufus’ ribs, then to cradle his face. “Rufus, touch yourself.”

Rufus shakes his head, “I can come like this, I think.” Because he’s almost there, trying to get the angle right, Onmund’s cockhead brushing against his prostate on each push of his hips, the way Onmund’s shaft holds him open, the friction of his cock rubbing against Onmund’s stomach. It’s all beautifully warm, a comfort. 

Onmund moves one hand between their bodies, wrapping it around Rufus’ cock, moving in time with the pace he has set. And Stendarr, that is too much. Too much. Because Onmund’s face is as open, as vulnerable as Rufus feels. His lips are slightly parted, loose, but Rufus can feel the tension through Onmund’s body, how hard he is inside him. Close, so close. 

“I love you,” Onmund whispers in the low light.

They’ve never.

Rufus never doubted, though.

Never.

He spills against Onmund’s stomach, his voice stopping up, then spilling from the broken dam. He knows he should be more quiet. But Rufus cannot help it. He cannot help himself as his abdomen tenses, as he squeezes down on Onmund’s cock. Onmund comes inside him, his face tensing and relaxing, Rufus’ name in his mouth. Onmund pants and pants, releasing Rufus’ cock and grabbing his hip instead, still thrusting up into Rufus, trying to draw it out.

They both grow lax, still breathing heavily. Onmund looks well-fucked, his dark hair sticking to the pillowcase with sweat. Rufus shifts his hips just enough for Onmund’s softening cock to slide out. But he has no will to move further. Not when Onmund’s face is so very beautiful. 

Rufus dips his finger into the pooled cum on Onmund’s stomach. It’s drying quickly, they should wash. But in a desperate, impulsive moment, Rufus slides down Onmund’s body, pressing his mouth to Onmund’s stomach and licking at his own cum. The taste is only mildly unpleasant, but the sound it shakes from Onmund makes it worth every swipe. Low and guttural, possessive in an inarticulate way. 

It is not enough for them to actually be clean, but it removes the immediate need for either one of them to leave the bed. Onmund rolls Rufus off from on top of him, depositing him on the mattress and curling their bodies back together. 

Rufus realizes, he has said nothing in return.

Perhaps it would have always been safer, for them not to know for certain.

But he has always known for certain.

“I love you.”

Onmund smiles, pressing a kiss to Rufus’ lips, tender, brief. “You should be my husband.”

Rufus nods, “Not yet.”

That is perhaps enough to settle Onmund’s curiosity. 

“Onmund,” Rufus is quite drowsy, not thinking straight. But merely being in Onmund’s presence renders him an utter mess. So, perhaps he should not blame his tiredness. “Do you think you would be easily recognized?”

Onmund’s eyes are closed. He is tired too. “No, my title does not mean much to the general population of Skyrim. My name is perhaps said in the capitals now. It is a little bit of a scandal that the Arch-Mage is a Nord. But they would not know my face. Outside of Winterhold? I do not think I would be recognized.”

Any other questions can wait until morning.

\--

Rufus wakes up alone, a tray of food set out. He’s still sticky between his thighs and lightly sore everywhere else. Wrapping the bedsheet around his waist, he stumbles just far enough to reach the plate of food, shoving a roll mostly into his mouth. He chews hastily, with no pretension of leaving before Onmund returns. He should. But he knows he won’t.

He has a flask of wine in his bag and he looks around the room until he finds it, taking a long sip to wash down the roll. He eats a second bun before curling back up into bed to wait for Onmund.

Drifting in and out of sleep, Rufus still does not feel quite rested when Onmund returns. In his arms he carries a dozen different scrolls. Seeing him so busy makes Rufus regret even thinking about taking Onmund with him. It’s impossible. Onmund’s responsibilities are here, at the College. 

Onmund drops the parchment into a heap on the floor. There is not enough room on his desk with the food tray cluttering the surface. With his arms free, he comes to the side of the bed, kissing Rufus soundly. Under the collar of Onmund’s robes, Rufus can see the links of the Amulet’s chain. He’s so fucking persistent. 

“Why did you ask if I would be recognized?” Onmund does not skirt the subject. 

Rufus frowns, tilting his head to one side. “I must return to High Hrothgar. But,” he shakes his head. 

“They do not deserve you,” Onmund fills the silence. Rufus has told him of the Greybeard’s contempt for him. Onmund kisses the side of Rufus’ head. “But if you feel that you must.”

“I know I must.” No one else is fit to stand against Alduin. And Rufus will not see this world die. He must make the Greybeards teach him the Shout that will rip Alduin from the sky. He needs the words, if he is to have any hope of succeeding.

Onmund twirls one of Rufus’ curls between his fingers. “I can go with you. That is what you want, yes? Why you asked if I would be recognized?”

Rufus nods, “But your responsibilities are here. The College needs you to lead.”

“Tolfdir can handle the administrative work. Everything else can wait.” Onmund lets go of Rufus’ hair, twining their fingers together instead. “Let me help you.”

Rufus is too weak. He knows he is too weak. 

“Yes.”

\-- 

Onmund leaves his Arch-Mage robes behind, though they carry superior enchantments. He keeps a set of Adept robes in his bag, but wears a simple tunic and breeches, with his cloak, as they make the trip to Ivarstead. Once the weather starts turning warm, he removes his cloak, though Rufus keeps his on.

Rufus feels lighter, more at ease, having Onmund walk at his side. It is a simple thing, to be in the company of another, a luxury that he seldom affords himself.

When he was first given Lydia as a housecarl, Rufus tried to make it work. But she was too loud, too coarse, he could not conceive of how to work with her, and not against. No doubt, she is a skilled warrior, finely trained and utterly professional. But Rufus did not understand how to mesh their skills together. 

But Onmund, Onmund is different. And Rufus gives all the credit to his...to Onmund. He has a brilliant, tactical mind. Though he is too humble to admit to it. Rufus is convinced that is why the Psijic Order chose Onmund to be Arch-Mage. They know him, believe in him, as Rufus does as well. 

Tired enough upon reaching Ivarstead, they settle on staying the night at the foot of the mountain. The climb up the Seven Thousand Steps is familiar for Rufus, but not for Onmund. 

At the tavern, Rufus orders wine for himself, ale for Onmund, and dinner for them both. There is little choice in Skyrim cuisine, so though he has no taste for meat, Rufus will eat whatever he is served. 

Over their meal, Onmund passes Rufus his bread so he may dip it into the stew. Rufus eats around the larger chunks of meat, aiming for carrots and soft strips of cabbage. Onmund starts picking the vegetables out of his own bowl, setting them on the side of Rufus’ plate. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Rufus says. It’s tedious, and unnecessary. He is already tasting the beef broth in every bite.

Onmund smiles, “Don’t be so stubborn. And when you are full, I’ll eat the rest of yours.”

They settle on exchanging bowls. Onmund eats up the chewy beef bits in his, leaving most of the vegetables behind. Rufus picks out what he prefers before they pass their bowls across the table. 

Feeling comfortable and full, they bed down for the night, Onmund’s arm draped over Rufus’ waist. 

Rufus hopes this is not a mistake.

\--

They wake early to commotion in the tavern. Rufus lays silently, still in Onmund’s arms. They look at one another, both awake now. Rufus listens through the door, trying to make out what is going on.

Boots, six men or mer. Too many sets of feet all at once for Rufus to distinguish by weight or height. Altmer, in any case, do not sound much different in step than men. Bretons sound more like the smaller elves. It’s all about weight distribution, a little about socialization too. Nords raised in Skyrim make more noise, typically, than Nords and Imperials who grew up in Cyrodiil. Redguards, no matter where they were raised, are lighter footed than either. But all three are typically larger and heavier than Bretons, Bosmer, and Dunmer. So only so much can be learned from boots, but much more than most people expect.

One man, native to Cyrodiil, speaks to the girl at the bar. He asks for “Dragonborn.”

Rufus knows who he is, from the first syllable. 

Once, when Rufus was quite small, he took comfort in that voice. When it belonged to uncle.

Now, it belongs to General Tullius. 

Rufus stays close to Onmund, tucking his face against his neck and keeping his voice low. “It is Tullius.”

Onmund’s arm tightens around Rufus’ waist.

Outside the door, the girl says she must check the register. She did not work last night, and does not know who is staying in the rooms. 

“He goes by the name Cloelius,” Tullius says. 

Rufus screws his eyes shut. He hears her turning the pages, “Rufus Cloelius?”

“Yes,” Tullius clips.

Onmund’s hand strokes up and down Rufus’ back, soothing best he can, “What do we do?”

“He will not leave, now that he knows I am here,” they must get up and dress, before Tullius orders his men to break down the door. Rufus remembers him as a steady, patient man. But that was many years ago. 

Tullius knocks at the door, “Cloelius?”

“Yes,” Rufus calls back, slipping from Onmund’s embrace and putting his feet to the floor. “Give me a moment to dress.”

“As you need,” comes the reply.

Rufus does not rush in pulling on his tunic and leather trousers, but he does not dally either. On the other side of the bed, Onmund dresses too, leaving his mage robes in his pack. Tugging at his hair, Rufus ties it up, keeping it off his face. Before he opens the door, Onmund squeezes his hand.

Opening the door, Rufus faces his uncle, who has not once remembered him. Did Rufus look so very different at fourteen? That was the last time they saw one another, though Rufus’ parents were not killed until he was sixteen. “Yes?”

“I have come to speak with you.”

Rufus can’t help but roll his eyes, “Obviously.”

Tullius scowls, “It is obviously no minor request, seeing as I have traveled from Solitude to speak with you personally.”

Well, this is one step above Stormcloak’s tactic, which was to kidnap Onmund and hold him hostage until Rufus showed up at his door. Er, through his window. 

“Oh,” Tullius notices Onmund in the room, “I did not realize you were not alone.”

Onmund takes a step forward, encroaching on Rufus’ back. Rufus can just make out the warmth of his body, and is thankful for it. “No, I am not. What is it you wish to discuss? I am bound for High Hrothgar.”

“Of course, this will be brief. I have matters to attend to as well. Perhaps we can speak alone?”

Rufus would rather not. He does not fear for his own safety, but for Onmund’s. Alone with half a dozen Legionaries? Of course that is worrisome. “Your men leave the tavern.”

Tullius nods, “Of course.”

He ushers his men out while Rufus requests a second room for them to speak in private. The girl does not charge him, seeing as they will only need the room a short time. Onmund kisses him on the cheek, before Rufus slips into the other room with Tullius.

With the door closed behind them, Rufus stares openly at Tullius. Tullius stares back. He does not recognize him. He has not. Not at Helgen and not here. Rufus repeats to himself that it is impossible for him to realize now. There are no new clues written on his face.

“Speak, if it is why you have come,” Rufus leans against the door, leaving Tullius seated at the small table. Standing, Tullius approaches Rufus instead. 

Graying, aging, lean under his armor, and a good deal shorter than Rufus, Tullius is an imposing man by reputation and poise, rather than physical stature. Rufus wonders if this is how his father would look now? His hair had still been dark when he died. But General Tullius is the older brother. So, perhaps Rufus’ father would still look young in comparison.

“I know what happened at Windhelm. What Ulfric Stormcloak did,” Tullius tilts his head in the direction of the other room, “Is that the same man?”

Rufus lies, “No.”

Tullius does not push him on the matter. “I know you refused Stormcloak’s offer. You may refuse mine as well. But I am here to make the Empire’s intentions clear. We want this war concluded as soon as possible.”

“As do I,” Rufus admits.

“So, you’ll side with us?”

How dangerous could this be?

“In my heart, always. But I would be little help to your cause. I am a poor soldier.”

Tullius shakes his head, “It does not matter much, when you can also breathe fire.”

“Fire breathing is a greater liability than you would think,” and that’s the truth. “The Greybeards balk that I engage in combat at all. They think the Thu’um unsuited for such endeavors.”

That, at least, draws a laugh from Tullius, “Then what is it good for?”

Rufus gestures grandly, “Knowledge.”

Tullius shakes his head, “Join us, Cloelius. If you believe in your Empire, help us end this war. I will not ask you to breathe fire, or hold a sword, but it would mean a great deal, to a great many in Skyrim, if you stood in Red.”

“I am a greater liability than you would think, as well,” Rufus thinks back to Montierre’s contract. He will not take it, but the parchment and amulet are still in his pack. He must dispose of them. He must break his ties with the Dark Brotherhood. He must wipe his hands clean.

“That does not matter. I will see to it that it does not matter. Histories can be rewritten, but only by the victors,” Tullius looks at him pensively, “Who were you, before you came to Skyrim? We have found no records of Rufus Cloelius.”

Rufus parts his lips. But he spent a long time learning to be silent, even when he speaks. “Because I was not important.”

“That is a lie,” Tullius calls him out. “I hear your accent myself. I’ve seen your penmanship. Heard reports of how well you ride, you shoot. Your posture now, the cleanliness of your nails, the way you wear your hair. You grew up with money, with tutors. Who are you, Cloelius?”

Rufus freezes, “Rufus, call me Rufus. Just once.”

Tullius looks at him with floundering confusion. They do not know each other well enough for first names. Patronymics are safer, more formal. But, still Tullius honors his request.

“Rufus?”

Still, Tullius does not know. Rufus refuses to tell him. Tullius has made it clear enough that he does not want to remember. 

“I cannot join you.”

“You know where to find me, if you change your mind.”

Rufus nods, “Of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

Arngeir throws open the doors to High Hrothgar just as Rufus and Onmund begin ascending the stairs. His hood is up, his face drawn. He has been expecting Rufus, not Onmund.

“Who is he?” Arngeir questions.

“Onmund,” Rufus answers, offering no other explanation. He owes the Greybeards nothing.

Rufus stands on the other side of the threshold, staring back at Arngeir. With his hood down, snow falls into his hair.

Next to him, Rufus can hear the sound of Onmund’s breathing, slightly winded from the change in altitude and the climb. But he did a marvelous job of keeping up. Months locked away in the College have only slightly dampened his athleticism. Whatever endearing clumsiness Onmund may display, he is both strong and fit. 

“I have come again, to ask after the Thu’um that will let me defeat Alduin. This time, you will not deny me.”

Arngeir folds his hands into his robes, turning from the door, “No, we will not deny you.”

Rufus is honestly startled that Arngeir acquiesce so easily. He and Onmund follow him inside, the door shutting surly behind them. They walk the halls in silence, heading back towards the rear courtyard. Only when they are outside again, with what little warmth Rufus managed to siphon from the fires inside already draining from his cheeks, does Arngeir speak again. 

“As you departed, last time, Master Einarth reminded me of my duty. The decision whether or not to help you is not mine to make.”

Rufus can’t help but snicker, “You’d toss me off the mountain if you could.”

While Arngeir’s face tightens, he does not bother to try and dissuade Rufus of his assumption. 

Arngeir continues, “But I cannot teach you the Shout, because I do not know it. I know it is called “Dragonrend,” but it’s Words of Power are unknown to us.”

Rufus feels a familiar tightening in his chest. He will be forced to travel. He will meet more poor souls who will mistakenly put their faith in him. He cannot go anywhere unaccosted, as this morning proved. 

“We do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place in The Way of the Voice.”

The Way of the Voice does not interest Rufus. If he could, he would bestow his blood on another. This is not a gift he ever wanted. But it is one he must shoulder. At least, now, he understands that The Way of the Voice and his Thu’um have very little to do with one another. It was not his choice, no, but his ability to Shout was built for death, not wisdom.

“You will address your question to Paarthurnax, the leader of our order.”

Rufus sneers, “And why haven’t I met Paarthurnax before now?” His name was not even mentioned. If it is Rufus’ destiny to complete this quest, destroy Alduin, save his Empire, carry the weight of this world, why does every fucking person he meet stand in his way?

“You were not ready. You are not ready now, child. But thanks to the Blades, you now have questions only Paarthurnax can answer.”

“Where is he?” Though Rufus spends as little time as possible at High Hrothgar, he has never seen evidence of Paarthurnax.

“He lives in seclusion, at the apex of the mountain. He speaks to us only rarely, and never to outsiders. Being allowed to see him is a great privilege.” 

Rufus doubts very much the privilege will be a pleasure. If anything, this Paarthurnax sounds even more insufferable than his followers. 

“Come, you will need your Voice to reach him. We will teach you the Shout required.”

One by one the other Greybeards join them, emerging from the cloister onto the mountain side. The snow continues falling in heavy, wet clumps. Rufus pulls up his hood to keep the damp out. Though Onmund has said nothing, he is steady at Rufus’ side, standing tall and straight. Such a beautifully quiet comfort.

Arngeir leads them all to the stone stairs, ascending further up the mountain. The archway at the top is blocked by whipping wind. Even at the foot of the stairs, Rufus can feel the power of the storm, ready to cut against his sensitive skin. It would rip clean through his leathers, toss him from the mountain. 

“We will show you how to clear the way,” Arngeir says, “but you go alone.” His eyes drift to Onmund.

“No,” Rufus chokes.

“It cannot be otherwise. Even we, as followers of the Way, are rarely granted the privilege.” 

Rufus feels Onmund’s bare hand wrap around his gloved one. Their fingers intertwine. Onmund keeps his voice soft, under the sound of the wind, “It’s okay. I’ll be here when you return.”

The gray of the sky only makes Onmund’s eyes look bluer. 

Rufus nods, their hands unlinking. 

“Lok,” the Graybeards whisper, too afraid of their earned power. But Rufus cannot fault them. He is afraid of himself as well. But they wanted this. They chose it.

Along the stones at Rufus’ feet, the Dragon’s tongue etches into the rock. It is a strange thing, reading the Words. He should not understand, but he does. Lok.

“Vah.”

Rufus reads as easily as he does Common. Something stirs inside him, more primal than refined. It fills up his stomach, tickling at the back of his throat. His head begins to spin. He hates this. He hates this so much. Whatever power it is the Words have over him. How they make and remake him from the inside, never quite reaching the surface. Vah.

“Koor.”

There is it, the invisible breaking of his bones, the stretch of his throat, making room for something that shouldn’t be inside of him. It is not as painful as when the Dragons’ souls enter him. But he suspects this torture is related. Stolen essences rearranging his very being, making him into something new.

Lok, vah, koor.

A power he did not have before. A skill he never learned, perhaps he always knew.

“Rufus?” Onmund’s hand skims down Rufus’ back.

He wants to scream. Not as a Dragon, but as a man. But he will not show weakness in front of the Greybeards. Onmund, yes, of course, always Onmund. But not these men who always find him inadequate. 

“This is your final gift from us, Dragonborn,” Arngeir’s proclamation is clear. Rufus is not welcome here. He never really was. “Use it well. The Words will clear the path to Paarthurnax, but it will only last a short time. The path is perilous, and not to be embarked upon lightly.”

“Thank you,” Rufus mumbles.

Arngeir and the other Greybeards start heading back towards High Hrothgar, but Arngeir waits by the door. Onmund.

The snow does not cease, though the path should clear with Rufus’ shout. At least they have a moment of privacy before Rufus begins his solitary climb. 

“Rufus?”

Rufus wraps his hands in Onmund’s cloak, squeezing down on the cloth, liking the weight of it in his hands. 

“Onmund…”

“Everything about this hurts you? Doesn’t it?” Onmund already knew of Rufus’ anguish when he absorbs Dragons’ souls. How the process leaves him utterly wrecked for hours as his flesh body tries to manage the intrusion. 

“Yes. But they do not know. Only you,” Rufus repeats, “Only you.”

Onmund nods, pushing back his hood just enough to kiss Rufus soundly. Parting his lips, Rufus feels the depth of it. His frustration and Onmund’s patience. 

Defeating Alduin is not a choice. It is a requirement.

They part, Onmund waiting at the foot of the stairs as Rufus climbs. 

Rufus stands before the howling storm, hash winds kicking up snow and stones. The sound of it up close is deafening. Rufus can hear nothing else. It sounds startlingly like an unsteady sea, one ready to strike ships against the cliffs, sending sailors to their deaths.

But this storm is one Rufus can stop.

Now that the Words have consumed some vital part of Rufus, he spits them back out, perfect diction, unceasing poise. They are his now.

“Lok, vah, koor.”

The winds stutter, starting to part like a well-oiled sliding door. They open for Rufus, then dissipate, as if the sky were serene all along.

While the snow continues to fall, it is lighter, dryer, evaporating to nothing as flakes fall on Rufus’ cloak.

Rufus looks back down the stairs. Onmund sits at the edge of the grand fire pit, bundled in his robes with his hood down around his shoulders. White snow catching in his dark hair.

Rufus steps through the archway, beginning his trek.

\--

Even with his gloves and cloak, hood pulled up and over his head, Rufus freezes.

He wishes he did have an aptitude for magic, because then perhaps he could warm his hands with Flame. But all he can manage now is Magelight and, while beautifully bright, the orb he conjures summons little heat.

There is always his Voice, the one everyone, save the Greybeards, thinks he should use when facing every minor inconvenience. You can summon fire and ice and force, can you not, dear Rufus? Just with the undulation of your vocal cords. They all think it so very ordinary. To those who do not know, the Voice is both remarkable and utterly banal at the same time. Why not use it, Rufus?

And he could. Though he cannot make fire in his hands, he could with his breath. It does not hurt him as learning does, does not devastate him as the dragons’ souls. Speaking is the easiest part of the equation. But still, Rufus stays quiet.

He reaches the Throat of the World without feeling in his hands or boots. His eyes sting from the flecks of snow the Shout leaves behind. Rufus sees no sign of this Paarthurnax, no dwelling, no fire, no footprints.

If this is some sort of test, he’ll make the Greybeards regret not only their oath, their quest for wisdom, but also the fact their parents ever met.

But as anger bubbles in Rufus’ chest, as he is about to scream, a shadow passes overhead.

No.

Not here.

Not alone.

That he can kill the dragon that approaches, he is almost certain. He is well practiced, having adapted his techniques to dart and dash, bobbing out of sight and reappearing only long enough to bleed these monsters out. 

But, the soul.

High Hrothgar is so far away. Even if Onmund begins to worry, he cannot come looking for Rufus. And Rufus will freeze to death before the Greybeards bat an eye.

Rufus considers running down the mountain, that is his only hope. But to leave the dragon here...he will only encounter it another time. Another time will be safer. Even if he can draw the dragon further down the mountain. Close enough to the cloister that afterward he can drag himself inside, wait for the pain and exhaustion to pass.

Turning to run, Rufus does not make it. The dragon touches down, blocking Rufus’ escape, its massive hind legs sinking in the snow, causing the mountain to shake. It cranes its neck towards Rufus, nostrils flaring and watches. The dragon watches, black eyes open, endless.

Rufus reaches for his dagger. He has no choice. 

The dragon rumbles. But it does not strike out, its feet steady in the snow. “Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you?” Paarthurnax tilts his massive head, eyes locked on Rufus, teeth bared. “What has brought you to my strunmah, my mountain?”

Rufus hesitates, but he must give a name, “I am called Rufus Cloelius...you're a dragon…”

Paarthurnax trembles. It is a laugh, “As my father Akatosh made me. Ah, now I know you. Dovahkiin.”

“Yes,” Rufus nods. “Yes.”

“But that does not answer the question, not really. Why are you here? Why do you disturb my meditation?”

“Dragonrend,” Rufus blurts out, “I must learn Dragonrend.” He is no more comfortable now, knowing Paarthurnax is a dragon, than when he expected the dragon to confront him in combat. At least the latter, he would have expectations to fall back upon.

“Patience, Child. First, a formality, traditional for the first meeting between two of the dov.”

Rufus is not dov. No matter what anyone says. He's a man. He's a man. This curse cannot make him otherwise.

But he fears it. That the souls, the words, change him.

Paarthurnax turns their head, “By tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my thu’um, feel it in your bones.”

Rufus would rather not.

“And match it! If you truly are Dovahkiin.”

Paarthurnax faces a massive Wall, the same design Rufus has seen across Skyrim, dusted with snow and caked with ice. They open their mouth, fire bursting forth with the first word, streaming with devastating intensity by the third. The snow vanishes. The ice sloshes into water, streaming past their feet, down the mountainside. It will freeze within minutes, leaving sharp ice talons behind.

As Paarthurnax’s fire fades, they leave a Word, etched into the stone, glowing red. Rufus feels it already, the ache inside him, the twisting of his gut, the crunching of his bones. Please, no. He has already taken three Words today, swallowed them whole, tamed them. He must still learn Dragonrend. Not another. Not this useless diversion.

But the dragon watches him, flaring their nostrils as they speak, “The word calls to you. A gift, Dovahkiin, Toor. Understand fire, as the dov do.”

“No,” Rufus stutters. “No, I will match you, but with words I already know.”

Paarthurnax tilts their head, “What is wrong with you, Dovahkiin? How can you refuse?”

Rufus covers his face with his gloved hands, choking back his rage, his frustration. “You lead the Greybeards, do you not?”

“I lead them, in the Way of the Voice.”

“But I am the only one who steals souls to learn? I am the only one who must kill to follow this wretched path to wisdom?”

Paarthurnax regards him gravely. “Instead of careful, patient practice, you may pilfer your words from us. Your blood allows it.”

“What is my blood doing?” Rufus shouts into the Throat, “what is it I am becoming?”

“Who you have always been.”

Rufus is unsatisfied with their answer. Here, at the Throat of the World, he yells. Because he has spent so long, never really being heard.

“NO!”

Paarthurnax recoils, drawing his head back towards his body.

“Nowhere, nowhere can I find reference to what I am experiencing. Tell me, Paarthurnax, am I meant to suffer for this? Am I meant to be in pain?”

“I do not know.”

Rufus sobs. Even here, he has no choice.

He stomps towards the wall. The Word glows before him.

Falling to his knees in the hardening ice, he reads, “Toor.”

Rufus waits to be filled. This time, he does not even bother to chew, to parse the syllable, to try and understand. He reads it from the wall. Sits quietly as the rush rakes through him. 

Who will the dragon tell of his weakness? The others? Alduin? Does it matter?

He doesn't want tears to freeze against his cheeks, so he holds them back. But Rufus allows himself the comfort of biting his nails into the center of his palms, trying to redirect the pain into something he can control. When it is over, he wants to lay face first in the snow and sleep.

Pushing himself to his feet, he stalks back towards Paarthurnax. His lips are already parted.

“Greet me now, child. Not as a mortal, but as dovah.”

Rufus does not look away, Shouting into Paarthurnax’s mouth, “Yol, Toor!” The puff of flame crawls from Rufus’ throat. He cannot feel the heat of it. But he can watch it sail across the gulf between himself and Paarthurnax. He watches the fire break part across their hide, disappearing into smoke.

“Are you satisfied?” Rufus asks. “I have done what you have requested.”

“Ah yes, the Dragon’s blood runs strong in you. It is true, Dovahkiin.”

“My name is Rufus,” he doesn't know why he even bothers.

“Dovah Sos, Dragonblood. It has been so long since I have spoken with one of my own kind.”

Paarthurnax lies. They are a liar. Rufus will not believe it. To have Dragonblood does not make them the same.

“Dragonrend,” Rufus interrupts, “you will teach me Dragonrend.”

“Of course, this is what you seek. You have not come for conversation, but a weapon to defeat Alduin.”

“Yes!” Rufus almost cries.

“Alduin and the Dovahkiin, you were destined to return together. But I do not know the Thu'um you seek. Krosis. It cannot be known to me.”

Rufus screams. He can think of no other response.

\--

When Rufus returns to High Hrothgar, the courtyard is empty, the fire pit died down. He walks steadily to the doors, pushing them open with what little strength he still has.

This is not a matter of his physical conditioning. He is well trained. But his bones ache and his mind races.

“Rufus?” Onmund stands from the table, an open book in front of him. Hurrying, he wraps Rufus in his arms. Rufus melts at the embrace, burying his frozen face against Onmund’s shoulder.

Onmund asks nothing more for the moment, running soothing circles over Rufus’ back. Rufus can feel Arngeir’s eyes upon them, unwilling to give them this moment of privacy.

Drawing away, Rufus rubs at his nose, brushing away the steady dribble, brought on by the thaw. “Paarthurnax said I need an Elder Scroll. Where do I find it?” He directs his question to Arngeir.

Arngeir frowns, “Ah, we would not know. We have little need…”

“The College,” Onmund interrupts, “We should ask Urag. If anyone knows where to find an Elder Scroll. He will.”

Rufus turns away from Arngeir, having little use for him now. “You know what an Elder Scroll is, then?”

Onmund frowns, “Not much. But I have seen them mentioned, in transcriptions of ancient magical texts. But Urag tends the greatest library in Skyrim.”

Rufus nods, “Then we return to the College.”

Arngeir still looms against the wall, no doubt perturbed that Rufus succeeded in speaking with Paarthurnax. 

Rufus plans on telling Onmund everything, but not here, where the Greybeards might interfere. “We should return to Ivarstead. Then we will travel to Winterhold.”

Onmund drops his voice low, “Rufus, it is dark. You...you do not look well.”

Rufus fists his hands in Onmund’s tunic, it is warm from the fire and Onmund’s heat. “I cannot stay here, please.”

Kissing the side of Rufus’ head, Onmund gives in, “Alright, but we sleep at Ivarstead before continuing on.”

“I promise.”

\--

A courier meets them at the foot of the mountain, a Dunmer woman with her hair in long braids. She shoves the parchment into Rufus’ hands, scowling, “For the Dragonborn,” before turning on her heels.

The sun is rising steadily. Rufus does not even want to break the crude seal. He promised Onmund he would rest.

They shuffle towards the tavern. Rufus feels as if in a daze. He is bone-exhausted, aching all over. At least his body has warmed.

Onmund speaks to the morning girl. She is busy sweeping the floor. There is a roar Rufus can't ignore, that makes it difficult for him to listen.

“The same room, Rufus,” Onmund says, guiding him with a hand in the small of Rufus’ back.

“Alright.”

They drop their packs at the side of the bed. Onmund helps Rufus unlace his boots. “Just a moment, she's warming some bread and slicing cheese. You should eat something.”

“I'm alright,” Rufus feels already half asleep.

“Just something small, or you'll wake ravenous.” 

Onmund slips from the room. Reaching over the side of the bed, Rufus snatches up the parchment from the courier. He has trouble getting his eyes to focus. Stendarr, is he tired. 

The message is scrawled across the page. Addressed to “Dearest Rufuses Cloeliuses!”

The hand is strange, beautiful loops that degrade into harsh lines. Rufus recognizes it from Cicero’s journals. From what Rufus can decipher, Cicero wishes to speak with him urgently, urgently. It is of the utmost importance. Cannot write in a letter. Not safe. Not safe.

Onmund returns with a small plate of bread and cheese. He sets it on the side table. “Rufus?”

“Burn this,” Rufus passes Onmund the parchment.

Onmund does not hesitate, does not try to read the letter first. Conjuring flame in one palm, he reduces the letter to ash, falling into his open hand. “Please eat.”

Rufus chews on a bit of cheese, Onmund watches over him. After choking down a bit of bread, he asks for his wine flask. Onmund finds it, taking a gulp for himself once Rufus has finished.

Once in bed together, Rufus folds into Onmund’s chest. A few hours, that's all they can afford. “We must go to Dawnstar.”

“And must I wait in the tavern?”

Rufus frowns, “No.”

This may be the end of them. This beautiful weave of emotion and comfort they have stitched together. But Rufus hopes not.

\--

“Rufus, Rufus, beautiful Rufus. Pretty Thrush, you've come!” Cicero’s voice rings through the otherwise empty Sanctuary.

Rufus squeezes down on Onmund’s hand, “This is where I have come, all those times I left you in the tavern.”

“You did not want me involved. I understand that now,” Onmund strokes his thumb over the back of Rufus’ hand.

Finally coming into sight, Cicero slides quite beautifully along the floor. He is shoeless, shirtless, with only the jester’s trousers around his waist. Rufus does not know how he spends his days, separated from his duties to Mother, hiding from the world.

Cicero is short, short enough that he must hop up to throw his arms around Rufus’s shoulders. With the strength in his arms and core, Cicero lifts his weight up off the floor, wrapping his legs around Rufus’ waist. He keeps his arms locked around Rufus’ shoulders, pressing his forehead to Rufus’ neck.

“So worried. I was so worried you would not come. That you would forget about poor Cicero.”

Rufus wraps his arms around Cicero as well, trying to keep his weight supported. It is awkward, to have Onmund witness this. He will have to explain, though there is no real suitable explanation. “Why did you need me?”

“Yes! About that,” Cicero untangles his legs, dropping his feet back to the floor. Instead, he grabs Rufus’ hands, holding them tight. Snapping his neck to the side, he glares at Onmund, “I remember you.”

“Yes,” Onmund nods, “Your cart broke along the road.”

“You were with the Listener! You were with him all along. When he was only a Thrush.”

Rufus is not about to correct Cicero, explain that he has been the Listener all along.

“Yes, I'm his…”

“This is Onmund,” Rufus finishes.

“Onmund. Onmund the Nord. With lovely, blue eyes and almost raven-hair. But not quite. You Nords,” Cicero spreads his fingers wide in front of his face, his pink lips visible through the gaps. “Your coloring leaves something to be desired. Desaturated? That is the word. No, no, low-contrast. Though you are nicer than most. Nice enough that the Listener won't let me tend to him.”

“Cicero!” Rufus feels his face flush. 

Onmund stays quiet.

“What is this about?” Rufus grasps at tendrils of composure, slipping too quickly out of his reach.

Cicero turns quiet serious, frowning, his speech settling. “Do not lie to me. Has the Night Mother given you a contract?”

He can't know. He can't possibly know? Mother does not speak to him. Rufus told no one. The only one to see him in Mother’s coffin was Astrid, and Astrid thinks Cicero dead.

“Do not lie, Rufus Cloelius. I am as well trained as you. Unlike these amateurs that call Skyrim home.”

“Yes,” Rufus admits.

“And did you complete your duty.”

“No.”

Cicero runs his fingers through his hair. It has gotten long, but remains straight. “You must. You must complete your contract.”

“Why does it matter?” Rufus asks, “why do you care? You are no longer Keeper. Not without Mother here.”

Cicero laughs, but it is with great composure. “I am mad, yes. And Mother and I may be parted. But are you any less the Listener because you choose to be willfully deaf? No.” The mirth returns to his voice, sudden, disorientating, “She loves you best. But she will not spare the rod.”

\--

“Rufus?” 

They spend the night in the Dawnstar Sanctuary. Rufus would be no more at ease in the tavern, and the weather is bad. Once the snow clears, they will head straight for the College, no more distractions.

“The contract. I will not do it,” Rufus murmurs against Onmund’s chest. It is easiest to speak like this, in the darkness, when they are close. He is sure Onmund listens to him. “It...I cannot kill who they ask.”

“What alternative do you have?”

Rufus shoves the tip of his nose against Onmund’s stubbled jaw until it bends, just a bit. “I need to make sure Cassius is safe. She knows he is my weakness.”

“He is still in Cyrodiil City?”

“Yes.”

Onmund threads his fingers through Rufus’ hair. The bed they share is narrow, the only one suitable in the Sanctuary. Cicero has retreated to the bowels of the cave. Rufus would hear him easily, were he to approach.

“You said your employers would release him. Are you certain?”

Rufus takes a moment to think, “No. But I am certain I could take him from them. I would have to return to the capital myself. And there is no time.”

Onmund sighs, “Alright, but say you retrieve him? What then?”

“Mother, at least, cannot see. Cannot hear. Not really. Even as she speaks to me, she can only hear me when I am close. I do not know how Cicero learned of the contract. But it was not from her. I am the only one who can hear her.” Rufus’ head spins, “she can only communicate with others through the Black Sacrament. She will not know that I have refused the contract until it is performed again. And the man I spoke to….he does not yet know I have refused.”

“Rufus...who is the contract for?”

Rufus does not answer. “Cassius must be taken somewhere safe. She knows he exists, but will not be able to find him, if he is moved in secret.”

“My parents,” Onmund blurts out, “their farm. No one will know him there.”

“Onmund...you said…” 

Onmund and his parents are not on good terms. They are not on any terms at all.

“The College is not safe. Too many of the students and professors meddle in magics they do not fully understand. And it would be improper of me to tell them to cease their studies. I thought of Whiterun as well, but there are so many people there. What if one performs the Sacrament, opens a channel of communication, and she hears of him? It will not do. But my parents’ farm. It is quiet, just the two of them now. And well suited for children...you said he was how old?”

“Ten,” Rufus responds, “he is ten.”

“I know I have not painted the most flattering picture of them...but my parents are good, honest people. I am just not the son they wanted.”

Rufus snickers, “And perhaps my brother is?” He knows he should not be so cruel. Onmund is trying his best to help. Rufus’ own desire to keep Cassius close is impossible, at least until his affairs are settled. 

“If he has your skill for magic, perhaps,” Onmund counters.

Rufus laughs, “But truly, they will not mistreat him?”

“No,” Onmund confirms, “we might...meet them. Perhaps? When there is time. We must still find the time to bring him to Skyrim...but.”

Rufus feels suddenly out of breath. He suspects, that while Onmund is honest that his parents would take Cassius in, he has another motivation. He wishes to see his parents. He misses them.

“These forsaken quests always send us clear across Skyrim. They are in the Reach, yes?”

Onmund nods, “Along the border with Haafingar.”

“We will see them,” Rufus agrees.

“Thank you.”

\--

Though he is still tired, Rufus slips from Onmund’s arms, putting his feet to the floor. Onmund doesn't stir.

He can hear Cicero, still awake, puttering through the Sanctuary, speaking words of comfort to himself. The words are not important, just the rhythm of Cicero’s voice. He was alone for a long time, only Mother to keep his confidence. Now, he has no one.

Though Rufus is silent on his approach, Cicero knows when he enters the high-vaulted chamber. He feels the presence of others as Rufus does, through vibrations and hesitations. He looks for shadows and shifting gravities. Before he was mad, Cicero must have been quite brilliant.

“Hello, Pretty Thrush,” Cicero is still only in his breeches, but has also found his hat, its long, colorful tails reaching down towards his shoulders. “Come now, sit with me.”

Rufus sits on the floor across from Cicero, his back against the cool stone wall. Wasting no time, Cicero crawls into his lap. Rufus recoils at first, but does not tell Cicero to stop.

Straddling Rufus’ narrow hips, Cicero makes himself comfortable, running his fingers through Rufus’ hair. “Your Nord unsatisfying?”

“No,” Rufus scrunches up his face, “and his name is Onmund.”

“Mmm,” Cicero settles his weight across Rufus’ thighs. He takes his hands to the nape of Rufus’ neck, running his thumbs up and down, from jaw to the junction of Rufus’ shoulders. “But you are here, Listener.”

They have been through this before, Rufus explaining that he wants no one save for Onmund. Cicero finds that quite silly. No one is ever loyal to just one man. But Cicero finds it odd as well that Rufus has no desire for women. Uncommon, to not lust after both, though everyone has preferences. But no matter. Cicero tried to argue that they are different, Keeper, Listener, and what passes between them is not for others to understand. 

“Do you know who the contract is for?” Rufus asks.

Cicero tips his head, pressing a chaste kiss to Rufus’ cheek. “Titus Mede II.”

Rufus’ breath is sharp, “How do you know?”

Kissing the other side, Cicero explains, “Mother does not talk to me. But men, men always talk, they gossip. They write letters. I have known of this plot for a long time. But not the hour of its coming.”

“You are Imperial as well,” Rufus says, “do you have no love for our home?”

Cicero leans backwards, further and further until his back almost hits Rufus’ shins. Rufus reaches around to grab him around the waist, keeping him from collapsing. Cicero is always slightly cool to the touch. In a single motion, Cicero snaps forward again, almost smashing his face into Rufus’. 

“Anywhere can be home. You should know that, Pretty Thrush. But do not call it ‘love.’ The Empire will continue, no matter who sits on the throne. Cyrodiil is not as fragile as the Stormcloaks think. Not as docile as the Thalmor assume,” Cicero smiles. “One day, yes, she will fall. But the assassination of an Emperor? So tame, so petty. But it will net Mother a great deal of coin. And, better yet, prestige.” 

“That is why she chose me,” Rufus’ mouth is dry, “because she wants them to know.”

“Yes,” Cicero hisses, squirming in Rufus’ lap. “You are the Dragonborn. Renowned across Skyrim. And soon? The rest of the Empire. It must be why she chose you.”

But Mother knows more. Mother knows his name is Tullius. Cicero does not. He does not know how, as a boy, he played in the same halls the Emperor walks. Nobles and esteemed servants of the Empire crammed in together, living in the shadow of the White-Gold Tower, still under repair. 

“Cicero, get off of me,” Rufus commands.

Cicero does indeed climb off, but not before kissing Rufus’ mouth. Rufus waits until he has left the room before wiping his face with his hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Their arrival at the College goes mostly unnoticed. The courtyard is empty, powdered with fine snow from this morning. The sky is clear now. But the sun will not last long.

Though Rufus is eager to meet with Urag, they head to the Arch-Mage's quarters first to warm their hands and change.

Rufus lets down his hair, trying to shake away some of the dampness. But that problem can't be helped without an hour or two in front of the fire. If he tries to towel his hair, it will only grow unruly.

Still, he plops himself down in front of the hearth, waiting for Onmund to come light it.

“Come now,” Onmund teases, “have you forgotten how to use your flint kit?” But he indulges Rufus, sparking the tinder with a fire spell, though he leaves Rufus to tend and grow the flames by hand. 

“No, but I thought you liked being terribly indulgent.” Once the fire is to Rufus’ satisfaction, he lies down on the stone floor, spreading his hair out close to the flames. 

Onmund laughs, stripping out of his tunic. Of course, he’ll want to wear his proper robes at the College. “Maybe I do,” he replies.

Rufus smiles, his face already growing warm. Without lifting his head, he can't really see what Onmund is doing, but he can take comfort in the rhythm of Onmund’s now-bare feet against the floor and the way he casts shadows in the firelight.

Letting his eyes drift closed, Rufus swears he doesn't mean to fall asleep. He only wakes when Onmund brushes his hand over Rufus’ shoulder.

“You should change, get into bed.”

But it's maybe only just past breakfast, unless Rufus was really asleep so very long. Reaching up to tug at his hair, it's still damp. So he couldn't have slept more than half an hour.

“Your back will hurt if you sleep on the floor,” Onmund chides, offering Rufus a hand up.

Rufus accepts it, pulling up off the floor and too his feet. “I'd be fine,” he insists, “I'm not so very old.”

Onmund shakes his head, “I'm only a few years older.”

“Old man,” Rufus teases, winding his hands into Onmund’s robes. He's donned the Arch-Mage ones, lovely, plush gray furs covering him from neck to hips, then tapering down to a sharp point as they reach his long legs. Rufus thinks he looks rather distinguished. Too distinguished to be spending his time with a literal rogue like him.

Rufus sneaks his hands around Onmund’s shoulders, grabbing the hood of his robes and flipping it up over Onmund’s dark hair. Tipping forward, he kisses Onmund, short and blissfully sweet, their faces shielded by the hood.

“Come on, let's get you into bed.”

“No, no it's fine. We should talk to Urag. I'm awake now,” Rufus insists.

Sighing, Onmund relents. “Do you mind terribly if I meet with Tolfdir? There are a few matters to which I should attend. Given that we are here.”

Rufus’ grip on Onmund’s robes loosen. Suddenly, he feels quite guilty again for having taken Onmund’s time. So viciously selfish to want to keep him close.

“Of course,” Rufus forces a smile. “I will return here when I am finished with Urag. We can speak once I know more about the Elder Scrolls.”

Onmund reaches out, wrapping his hands around each of Rufus’ wrists, “Promise me though, we spend the night here before departing again.”

Rufus wants to argue. They have no idea where their next destination is, or how long it will take to find the Elder Scroll. He doesn't know how much time his brother has, or when the Night Mother will discover he has abandoned Montierre’s contract. There are so many variables still spinning around his head. But in the end he says:

“Alright, of course,” before slipping out the door.

\--

Urag greets Rufus with an expression that is half-annoyed, all disbelief. “I'd heard you'd been around.”

Rufus plops himself in the chair across from Urag, letting his feet stretch out. Still in his leathers, Rufus knows he sticks out like a sore thumb at the College, but he plans on seeing no one but the librarian and the Arch-Mage, if that can be managed. “I have a question!” he exclaims.

“Of course you do,” Urag settles back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, “and how may I help the illustrious Dragonborn?”

Rufus corrects, “Not so loud!” He looks back and forth over the library, but they appear to be alone.

Urag snickers, “All the new students are in classes. And the apprentices, well, adepts now, from your cohort would know you a mile away.” He shakes his head, “What exactly have you been doing with our Arch-Mage?”

Rufus smiles, trying to keep up appearances. He's meant to be charming, suave, unflappable, right? It is expected of those like him. Those who walk in shadows and breathe in smoke, who make lies their currency. “I didn't think you a man who would want details?” Rufus teases, “but if you insist?”

“No, no, forget I asked anything,” Urag snarls, “what help do you need?”

Rufus slices right to the heart of it, “I need to know about Elder Scrolls?”

Urag’s eyes go a little wide, but he recovers quickly. Rufus never thought he'd see the day he got the better of the Orc. Leaning over his desk, Urag scribbles down a set of numbers, “Stack and alsie numbers. Check the bindings, you should find the right volumes.”

“Really?” Rufus asks, turning the parchment in his hand, “not going to put up more of a fight for it?”

“Why?” Urag comments, “you're fucking the Arch-Mage. I'd rather keep on your good side, kid.”

Rufus feels his cheeks warm. But he knows he should say something boulstrious in return. Maybe brag, or say something suggestively coy. Anything but blush and stumble over his words. Because Onmund deserves more than the assumption that they are just fucking. But it is Rufus who won't commit, even if he is delusionally in love. 

Winking, Rufus settles on, “Good choice,” as a response. He hopes that is enough as he bounces up out of his seat, in search of the books Urag has noted.

The Arcanaeum is somehow both larger and smaller than it appears. It's footprint is deceiving, books stacked tightly against one another, making the most of available space. So while Rufus reaches his destination quickly, it takes him a long time to sort through the stacks.

He piles the books on top of one another, carrying them back to the long bank of desks. There's nothing to do now but read, try and find some clue to where he can locate an Elder Scroll.

This isn't how Rufus anticipated being the Dragonborn would go, combing through dusty books under close scrutiny by a hawkish archivist. Okay, maybe he couldn't have dreamed up any set of circumstances. He just has to focus.

After the first hour, words start blurring together. Nothing gives him any solid leads. He switches between books, trying to find a connection somewhere, a strand he can grab hold of, weave into a possibility.

One of the tomes finally gives him pause, not because it is illuminating. Quite the opposite, really. He can't make sense of it, though Rufus considers himself widely read. 

_Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric. Holding the fabric over your gills, you would begin to breathe-drink its warp and weft. Though the plantmatter fibers imbue your soul, the wretched plankton would pollute the cloth until it stank to heavens of prophecy._

In its own way, the language is quite beautiful. Rufus would be well served to be able to string such images together. But, ultimately, the pretty words lead to no particular destination. And Rufus is beyond ready to arrive.

Flipping back to the cover, Rufus checks the title, “Ruminations of the Elder Scrolls.” On the inside placard, he finds the author, Septimus Signus, College of Winterhold. He's never heard of Signus, but that means little. The College has a long, long history. Rufus’ involvement is terribly brief in comparison.

Rufus gathers up the books, walking them back to Urag. Dropping them on the desk, he rouses Urag from his meticulous note-taking. “I have a question,” Rufus announces.

“Don't you always?” Urag counters.

“Who is Septimus Signus?” he asks.

“An Imperial, like you,” Urag thinks himself so clever. “He’s considered the world’s master on the subject of the Elder Scrolls...but.”

“But?” Rufus raises his eyebrows.

“He’s been gone for a long time, too long.” 

This actually surprises Rufus, he was expecting Signus to be a half-mythic figure. Someone already lost to the waves of history, much like the Shout he’s supposed to learn. 

“Where did he go?”

“Up North, last I heard, to the ice fields. Said he found some Dwemer artefact, but that was...years ago,” Urag shakes his head. “Haven’t heard, or seen him since.”

Frowning, Rufus asks, “But someone at the College should know, yes? It says here,” he opens up the book to show Urag, “College of Winterhold. So, he studied here?”

Urag leans back in his chair, “You should know by now how things work around here, kid. If someone disappears, no one likes talking about it. As if they never were.”

That sends ice through Rufus’ veins. He knows. He also knows, one day, that will be him. When it is no longer convenient for others to know he was ever a student here. Even if it was all a ruse. Stendarr, that was true from the moment the Eye of Magnus was removed. They should have started covering his tracks right away. But some of his footprints will remain until he dies, or defeats Alduin. Whichever comes first.

Rufus thanks Urag for his time, keeping the book for himself. Urag opens his mouth, as if to protest, his long teeth scraping against his lips. But in the end, he doesn’t object, sitting back and returning to his notes.

\--

The Arch-Mage’s quarters are empty. Onmund is either still in meetings or at lunch. Rufus considers joining him, but remembers Urag’s words. How people just disappear. A rumor, nothing more. Better if Rufus stays that way.

\--

Onmund returns. Rufus is sleeping. At least, this time, he’s made it to the bed. Too much to ask that he would have removed his clothes. 

“Did you find anything?” Onmund runs his hand along Rufus’ side, rousing him gently to wake. His hood is down around his shoulders, framing his long, pale neck quite beautifully. 

“Mmmpf,” Rufus manages, “The ice fields, a man named Septimus Signus. Though I do not know if he’s alive. Expert, Elder Scrolls,” Rufus can barely string together his sentences. 

Onmund smiles softly, “I should have let you sleep. But it’s time for supper. And I suspect you didn’t have lunch.”

“What did you bring?” Rufus rolls onto his back, though he just wants to pull Onmund down with him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes. 

“Let’s go down to eat,” Onmund suggests. “It’s better if...I’m seen.”

Rufus frowns, “And it is better if I am not seen.”

Onmund exhales loudly, “I won’t be ashamed of you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Rufus wishes that were true. “Go, eat, just bring me something back?” Flipping again, Rufus rolls onto his stomach. He braces for another protest, but it never comes. Bundling one pillow under his face, Rufus waits while Onmund leaves.

\--

Rufus promised that they would stay the night. So they stay the night.

He cannot help but roll into Onmund’s heat, press kisses to his jaw first, then his neck, back up to parted lips. “You could grow a beard you know?” Rufus suggests, his hands already tangling in the fabric of Onmund’s tunic.

They’ve both eaten now, and they’re warm. Tomorrow, Rufus departs for the ice fields. He will not ask Onmund to accompany him. But if Onmund offers, Rufus knows he is too weak not to accept. 

“Mm? Why would I do that?” Onmund’s hand slips down the back of Rufus’ pants. They only fit around his hips loosely. He wears one of Onmund’s tunics. His own are still drying. It’s much too large for the narrowness of his chest. But at least it is long enough. 

Rufus drums his fingers against Onmund’s cheek, just where his stubble starts to thicken. “It would make you look distinguished,” Rufus teases, “Isn’t it an Arch-Mage thing?”

“Some Arch-Mages are women?”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t grow a beard too,” Rufus corrects.

They’re silent for awhile longer, their mouths too occupied. Rufus backs Onmund into bed, pawing at his tunic, because now they’re wearing entirely too much, despite the chill hanging in the air.

Onmund complies, stripping from his shirt and sitting on the edge of the bed. Rufus stands between his parted thighs, tugging at his own clothing before bending over to get his lips back where they belong. 

\--

“You need another cloak,” Omund states quite plainly.

For the most part they are both dressed, ready to head out onto the ice fields North of the College. Where the sea-water never melts. Rufus is already bundled up, best that he can manage. He only has the one heavy overcloak. While it makes his movements less deft, there’s no use being flexible if you’re already frozen.

“I do not have another.”

But Onmund is already rifling through his own closet, pulling out his old overcloak. It is not quite as heavy as Rufus’. Onmund never needed that much help staying warm. Even now, the cloak he wears over his Adept robes is perhaps only half as thickly lined with fur as Rufus’. But Onmund tosses his old cloak over Rufus anyway. “It will have to do. I should have known to order you something.”

“You speak as if you keep me,” Rufus teases.

“Are you saying I don’t?”

Smiling, Rufus leads the way out of the College. No one stops them, but perhaps under the layers they are both unrecognizable. 

It is strange, walking on top of the sea. And it is the sea. Rufus can feel the currents, though they are trapped deep beneath their feet. He can smell the salt as well. And the wind feels the same. Stepping against the surface is borderline surreal, the way it feels as if the water moves with them.

Rufus wishes they had more to go on, setting out across the field. The solid ocean is so vast, he fears his subtle tracking skills are at a loss. 

They will die if they do not move quickly, though they have provisioned well. Onmund can always raise fire for them, but sometimes fire is not enough.

Rufus keeps his robes bundled tightly around him as they walk. He holds himself to keep from shaking. Onmund points to a feature in the distance, what looks like a small dome. They’ve been walking for hours. Even if it is not Signus, perhaps they will be able to rest, reassess their plans. 

It takes them ten minutes more in the whipping wind to reach the structure, but there is a crude, but obviously man-made, wooden door, carved into the side of the ice. Without hesitation, Rufus yanks it open, stumbling inside. Onmund files in behind him, pushing down his hood. The dome is blissfully warm, a fire flickering below.

“Hello?” Rufus calls, dropping his hood as well. “We mean you no harm?”

No one answers, but on the lower level, Rufus watches shadows move. There is a man here, one who won’t respond. 

Rufus motions for Onmund to wait as he strides down the ramp. He does not hide. There is still no reason to believe whoever lives here poses a threat. But whoever it is refuses to respond.

The man is old, of average height and build, with a thick gray beard, large nose and dark, deep set eyes. He wears Mage robes, his hood up over his head. The robes are tattered at the hem and the color has begun to fade. He has worn and washed them many times.

The circular room is dominated by a large, Dwemer mechanism. The height of three men, crafted from golden Dwemer metals and sea-colored glass, it already makes Rufus uneasy. Orbs unearthed from the depths don’t seem to get along very well with him. 

“Septimus Signus?” Rufus asks, turning his attention away from the mechanism. The man is not a Nord, and Rufus doubts very much that many Imperials live out on the ice floats. Sendarr, why would anyone, Nord or not, live here?”

The man snaps his head around at the name, “Dig Dwemer, in the beyond. I’ll know your lost unknown and rise to your depths.”

Rufus catches his breath. Yes, this must be Signus, with his distinct, haunting prose. That others may take for madness, but Rufus can find only beautiful. “Yes,” Rufus gasps, “I heard you know of the Elder Scrolls?”

Signus furrows his brow, “Elder Scrolls. Indeed.”

“Please,” Rufus breathes, “I must find one.” He calls up, “Onmund! It is Signus!”

“The Empire, they absconded with them. Or so they think. The ones they saw. The ones they thought they saw.”

Yes, Rufus realizes, he has heard of Elder Scrolls before. He remembers now. They were held at the White-Gold Palace when it was still beautiful, intact. But that was a long time ago. 

“I know of one. Forgotten, Sequestered. But I cannot go to it.”

Rufus doesn’t care if Signus can recover the Scroll. That is something Rufus can accomplish on his own. He only needs to know where. 

“Where is it?” Rufus asks.

“Here,” Signus answers.

But it is never that easy.

“Here on the mortal plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking,” Signus laughs, “when you think of it that way. Everything is nearby.”

Rufus goes to tear at his hair, but Onmund steps in beside him, grabbing his wrist and twining their hands together. Oh.

“Can you help me? I can retrieve the Scroll for myself. But I must know where,” Rufus insists.

Signus nods quite gravely, “One block lifts the other. Septimus will give you what you want, child. But you must bring him something in return.”

Rufus starts to tense his hands, his throat clogging up with rage. But when he squeezes down on Onmund, he realizes his mistake.

“What do you need from us?”

“You see this masterwork of the Dwemer?” he steps towards the metal orb, gesturing grandly, though he is so very small in comparison. “Deep inside their greatest knowings. Septimus is clever among men, but he is an idiot child compared to the dullest of the Dwemer.”

Rufus frowns. He thinks that a very narrow view of knowledge. But he has not the energy to correct Signus. 

“Lucky then they left behind their own way of reading the Elder Scrolls,” he continues gleefully. “In the depths of Blackreach, one yet lies. Have you heard of Blackreach?” Signus’ tone changes quite dramatically. “Cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the yearning spire hidden learnings kept.”

Signus puts them on the path to the Dwemer ruin of Alftand. From there, they should be able to access Blackreach and the Elder Scroll. Still, he speaks in riddles, though not terribly complicated ones. Blackreach is deep, below even the surface of the Dwemer ruins Rufus and Onmund are now somewhat accustomed to.

He hands Rufus a Lexicon for inscribing knowledge. Another tool for ‘music.’ Signus’ instructions are not particularly clear. But Rufus figures they will work out the process as they go. 

“Find Mzark and its sky-dome. The machinations there will read the Scroll and lay the lore upon the cube.”

Rufus turns the Lexicon over in his hands. Messing with a Dwemer ruin, again, is not high on his list of desires. But if this is what must be done to access the Scrolls...this can’t possibly be worse than the Eye of Magnus. 

“Why do we need the Lexicon?” Onmund asks, his eyes fixed on the cube in Rufus’ hands.

Signus smiles softly, “To glimpse the world inside the Elder Scroll can damage the eyes. Or the mind. As it has to Septimus.”

Of course. The Scrolls themselves have addled Signus. Why is Rufus not surprised? 

\--

Bundling back up, Rufus and Onmund prepare to depart Signus’ outpost. To reach Alftand should not take more than a day’s travel. They will have to pass through Winterhold, but Rufus sees no need to visit the College.

He, however, has other ideas.

“Onmund?” he asks before ascending the ladder that will take them back to the ice fields.

“Yes?”

“Let's go, now. To see your parents. Before we attempt to find the Elder Scroll.”

Onmund frowns, “it is out of the way.”

Rufus already knows this. But he has a sinking feeling in his gut. If they descend to Blackreach first...there will never be a better time.

“It does not matter. You wish to visit your parents. So we will visit your parents.” It all sounds so simple.

“We should take the caravan to Solitude.”

\--

They do not even bother entering Solitude proper. If Onmund is to be recognized anywhere out of Winterhold, it would be here, where all the providence’s gossip solidifies. Where portrait painters will lean their brushes against canvas on little more than the vaguest description. Rufus is certain there are sketches to be purchased of a blond-haired Onmund, broader and stronger than he actually is (not as if he is lacking, just artists have a way of exaggerating). And he is certain because he a has seen gruesome portraits of “the Dragonborn” with fair skin and light eyes. Not quite a Nord, but as close as those forsaken artists can manage, now that rumor confirms Rufus is an Imperial.

It's hours yet until they reach Onmund’s family farm, just on the border between Haafingar and the Reach. At least the weather is pleasant here, a blissful change from the frozen North. The thawed North treats Rufus much better.

Before they departed Winterhold, Onmund sent a message ahead with one of the College’s crows. His parents should be expecting them. But Rufus is unsure how much they know.

Surely Stormcloak told them something. Ulfric made some idle threat that Onmund’s father had been informed of his whereabouts. But they left Windhelm before he could arrive, if he had ever really been summoned at all. Ulfric could just have well been lying.

They reach the farm on the precipice of sunset. The fields are little more than hard, rocky ground. But the farmers of Skyrim are industrious. Coaxing as much as they can from as little as they are given. They would never survive, otherwise. 

A soft, gentle cow chews her cud just beyond the fence. Rufus would like very much to go see her. Right now, standing before Onmund’s parent’s door. He would like very much to be anywhere but here.

He is not Onmund’s husband. Oh, Stendarr, he should not have insisted on this. They will judge him harshly. For so, very many reasons.

Onmund raises one hand to the brass knocker, affixed soundly to the wooden door. The other hand he entwines with Rufus’, holding on tight. Slotting his thicker fingers between Rufus’ finer ones.

“Breathe, Rufus,” Onmund smiles softly, but does not take his eyes from the door.

The woman who answers is broad and graying-blonde, with wide hips and a gentle roll to her stomach. She’s as tall as Onmund and Rufus’ collar bones, with thin lips and blue eyes. 

“Mama,” Onmund says. He does not let go of Rufus’ hand.

Oh. This is for Onmund. As much as it is for Rufus. Rufus squeezes down on his fingers.

“Onmund,” though her voice is terse, there is a softness in her eyes. “There is dinner. If you are hungry.”

She steps aside, letting them come through the doorway. Onmund shuts it quietly behind him. “Mama, this is Rufus Cloelius.”

Frowning openly, she replies, “Where have I heard that name?”

Onmund told her nothing, then.

“Is he your husband?”

When Onmund frowns, their similarities are unmistakable. “He will be.”

Onmund’s father is away. Perhaps to return tomorrow morning. He has been running supplies to the Stormcloaks, in secret. As the Reach is still under the protection of the Empire.

“It would serve you well to have that school of yours join the rebellion,” Jyett explains. She hovers around the kitchen while Rufus and Onmund eat. Rufus doesn't have much of an appetite. And while he has grown accustomed to eating meat-based broths and small scraps of flesh, the significant round of broiled chicken on his plate gives him pause.

He does not want to appear impolite. If only she would just step away! Trying to look busy, he cuts the chicken into ever smaller pieces. But that doesn't help, now it looks like more meat, not less. He is going to have to eat it.

Quietly, Onmund slides two thick slices of potato onto the corner of Rufus’ plate. He sticks his fork into one of the pathetic little chicken bits, popping it into his mouth. It would be one thing in a tavern, but Rufus balks at exchanging food in front of Onmund’s mother. She will notice.

“Do you not like it?” Her voice is softer now, slightly worried.

Onmund speaks before Rufus can figure out an excuse. “He doesn't eat meat, mama.”

Jytte scoffs, “Who doesn't eat meat?”

“It's not unheard of.”

Rufus wants to make it right. Loud enough for both of them to hear, he interrupts, “I'll eat it. Don't worry.”

Onmund snickers, as if they are not here, trying to make a good impression. “Don't be silly. It's fine.”

Jytte turns away. Rufus is certain she is cross with him. And with Onmund. He should have just eaten the fucking chicken.

But she reappears a moment later with another small plate. There are three more potato slices stacked on it. Putting it down in front of Rufus she chides, “You better not let that chicken go to waste, Onmund.”

“I won't, mama.”

Rufus’ appetite doesn't do any better. But he crams down all three pieces of potato, before this can get any worse.

\--

They retreat to Onmund’s bedroom, just as soon as the meal is done. Jytte has little energy to entertain tonight. She's been working the crops and animals all day.

The longer they are here, the less confident Rufus is that Onmund’s parents will be amenable to looking after Cassius. Onmund’s mother seems to barely tolerate Rufus. And he will only be here a matter of days.

Onmund’s room is small and tidy, with seemingly nowhere to lay their bags. But Onmund takes Rufus’ pack, hanging it on a hook affixed to the wall.

It is not until they are curled, chest to chest in Onmund’s narrow childhood bed, that either of them has much anything to say.

“Do not be discouraged,” Onmund soothes, rubbing his hand down Rufus’ spine. It is warm enough in the Reach that they may sleep without their shirts between skin.

Rufus laughs bitterly. He should be the one comforting Onmund. His mother appears less than pleased to see them. “You should not be either. There are those who love you. Very dearly. Whether you join the rebellion or not.”

“Liar,” Onmund chirps, “you would not love me, were I to join.”

“You do not wish it either.”

“...No,” Onmund admits. “The College must remain apolitical.”

Rufus does not push the subject further.

But Onmund’s hand snakes into the back of Rufus’ breeches, ghosting fingers over his ass, slotting in between his legs. Rufus smiles into Onmund’s neck. “Are you sure this is wise? Your mother already dislikes me.”

“She doesn't dislike you,” Onmund says reflexively. “It may worry her that we are not yet married.”

Rufus rolls his eyes, “It worries you too.”

“You are a capricious man, Rufus,” Onmund grips the inside of Rufus’ thigh.

Sighing, Rufus asks, “Do you want to have me?” He parts his legs, rubbing against Onmund’s curious hand.

“Do you want to be taken?”

Rufus laughs, rolling his hips so that his erection bumps against Onmund’s hip, “What do you think? I can be very quiet.”

There is something to the illicitness that makes their encounter all the sweeter. Or, perhaps it is the warm familiarity of the room, though Rufus has never been here. It smells fresh, and clean, but long unused. But in its sparse practicality, it is undoubtably Onmund’s. Much more so than the Arch-Mage’s quarters back at Winterhold.

In a way, with Onmund’s simple cotton sheets, his bare wooden floor, his unadorned walls, Rufus realizes how decadent excursion he is in Onmund’s life. How frivolous and ornate. 

Extravagant maybe, but not unwanted. Because as Onmund slides his slickened fingers into Rufus, the brightness of Onmund’s eyes is nearly blinding. Rufus cranes his neck up to kiss him, pulling at his bottom lip with vicious teeth, before releasing with a soft moan.

“I thought we were being quiet,” Onmund teases, punctuating his remark with his fingers, buried deep inside. He brushes against Rufus’ prostate, pulling back before it becomes too much.

“You're making it very hard,” Rufus huffs.

Onmund bites his tongue. That one is too easy.

Like Rufus, maybe.

They rearrange, Rufus coming up on all fours while Onmund settles in behind him, smoothing one hand down Rufus’ spine as he eases in. Dropping his shoulders to the mattress, Rufus pushes back, trying to pick up Onmund’s slow, agonizing pace.

“You're beautiful,” Onmund says.

Rufus responds, “We’re being quiet.”

Saying nothing more, Onmund grabs hold of Rufus’ hips, sliding with a precision they've only just begun to develop. Each time still holds the spark of something new, something more beyond the next barrier. Rufus can feel Onmund’s fingers long after they leave his hips. He can see the points of pressure, even without the dark bruises he had expected.

Wrapping his hand around Rufus’ cock, Onmund strokes in time with the punctuation of his hips. Snapping, Rufus clawing at the sheets, he bites back Onmund’s name as it pounds against his teeth.

He feels full and warm. Most of all, streaking behind his eyes, Rufus feels at home. And that home is only where Onmund is. Because that is where he is loved.

No matter if the sensation is only fleeting.

Rufus comes in the tight circle on Onmund’s hand. Onmund goes limp across Rufus’ back. Pulling away after a final heartbeat, their skin wanting to stick together. He expects Onmund to pull him close. Or, at most, look for something to clean themselves before bed. 

What Rufus does not expect is Onmund’s fingers parting him again. Pushing what cum has leaked around his rim back inside.

“Onmund?”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” though Rufus isn't quite sure what he is doing. But it all feels overstimulating. Rufus wants whatever affection Onmund so quietly offers.

Tipping forward, Onmund presses his mouth against Rufus’ hole. Rufus could curse all eight Divines at once as he bites into the pillow. Onmund laps at him with slow, gentle strokes of his tongue. Warm wetness coiling against his skin, and the drier heat in his abdomen, flaring at the intimacy of it. 

Onmund pushes inside him. Rufus can only hope he is still silent, or close to it. Because all he wants to do is scream.

By the time Onmund pulls back Rufus is a panting mess, unsure of where to fold his limbs. Onmund kisses the small of his back, promising, “I'll make you my husband.”

Rufus smiles at his persistence on the matter. “I know you will.”


	5. Chapter 5

Rufus hears the door downstairs open, then slam shut, boots knocking against the woven mat, then being removed. The sound of a leather belt unhooked, a jacket hung on the peg by the door. And, finally a gruff greeting, “Onmund, you’ve come home.”

Rolling from his side onto his back, Rufus realizes he is alone in bed. He slept through Onmund waking sometime earlier. He rests his hands on his bare stomach, listening to the conversation downstairs. Perhaps it is for the best Onmund will have a moment alone with his father. Though sleeping in may give the impression that Rufus is lazy, unconcerned with the natural rhythm of the Rain-Stead household.

“Yes, father. I sent a letter saying that I would be visiting.” 

The elder man pulls a chair from the table, collapsing onto it. Rufus can make out the sound of a ceramic cup, then plate, and the scratch of metal cutlery as Onmund and his father eat. 

“I also expected to see you at Windhelm, and yet, you were not there.”

So Ulfric’s threat had not been idle. The Jarl had informed Onmund’s father of his son’s captivity at Windhelm. But what details Ulfric chose to divulge remains a mystery.

“What did the Jarl tell you?"

“That you were ready to serve. That he was proud of our household and our contributions to the true High King. That you would in instrumental in recruiting the Dovahkiin.”

The sound of Onmund’s soft socks against the wooden floor, scuffing in his nervousness, is unmistakable.

Rufus does his best to remain silent as he crawls out of bed, looking for his bag. He dresses while continuing to follow the conversation downstairs.

“He lied to you, I agreed to nothing.”

Onmund’s father sighs heavily, his mouth still filled with food, “I should have known. I should have saved myself the embarrassment, arriving only to find you gone.” 

Dressed, Rufus slips out the door, quietly reaching the stairs. He considers artificially making noise, to alert Onmund to his presence in the stairwell. But in the end, he is too distracted to remember heavying his footfall. 

“Perhaps.”

“That boy your mother says is in your room, what of him?”

Rufus freezes where he stands, still obstructed by the wall and blended in the shadows.

“He’s not a boy, father. He’s Rufus Cloelius…” 

Onmund’s father drops his fork onto the table, “The Dovahkiin?”

“Yes, father.”

Pushing away from the table, Onmund’s father stands, making his way towards the stairs. Rufus resumes descending, trying his best to make his steps appear natural. As if he had not be laying in wait. He smiles, as brightly as he can manage, given the early hour.

“Good morning, Onmund,” Rufus says.

Onmund stands, stepping in front of his father to greet Rufus first. Twining their hands together, Onmund makes proper introductions, “Rufus, this is my father, Erens Rain-Stead. Father, this is Rufus Cloelius.”

Rufus offers his hand, happy that his clothing is loose fitting and unassuming, though the casual attire does little to put Erens at ease. 

Erens looks a great deal like his son, with dark hair run through with gray and icy eyes. He is shorter than Onmund, but only an inch at most, broadly built and imposing in his posture.

Erens does not take Rufus’ hand at first, looking him up and down. Rufus is used to such treatment by now, the disbelief that the fabled Dragonborn is no Nord, that he is slender, eerily silent, and a touch effete in his manners. If Rufus were offended every time he is misjudged, he would be even more exhausted with his current position in life than he already is. 

He does not pull his hand away, forcing Erens to finally accept the gesture, shaking firmly.

But, despite any trepidations Erens may have about Rufus’ appearance and mannerisms, he remains quietly in awe of Rufus’ title.

“You are the Dovahkiin?” Erens asks, dropping Rufus’ hand.

Rufus does not attempt to dissuade him, “Yes.”

 “And you came here, with my son?” His eyes shift from Rufus back to Onmund, still standing firmly at Rufus’ side, their hands clasped together.

“Yes,” Rufus’ stomach protests its emptiness. He's hungry. But somehow Erens is still too disoriented to offer hospitality

“You are sleeping with my son?” 

“Father!” Onmund blurts, his face reddening. 

Rufus isn't surprised, exactly. Indirect politeness isn't valued in the North. So it is not so strange that Erens cares little for subtlety. Rufus laughs lightly, squeezing down on Onmund’s hand.

It is better, undoubtedly, to be truthful, rather than evasive. For any other audience, Rufus would not hesitate, telling them exactly how intimate they are. But here, in front of Onmund’s father, his stomach churns. He does not know what the correct response is, the one that will save Onmund from embarrassment and satisfy Erens’ concern. 

“I love Onmund, very much.” 

Erens frowns. Rufus is unsure what he could have done better. Panic rising, his throat grows tight. 

“A continent filled with willing men and women of your choosing, and you have selected my son? I do not believe it.” 

“Father,” Onmund tries to interject again. “Why do you so desperately want me to fail?” he hisses.

“Fail? I have wanted nothing more than for you to be safe, happy. You cannot possibly,” Erens sighs. “Boy, you said you wished to be a mage. And now you are, what? King of mages?” 

“Arch-Mage,” Onmund corrects, “I am Arch-Mage.” 

“In any case, has this made you happy?” Erens asks. He is sincere in his concern. Rufus realizes this, his shoulders dropping. He had not notice how tense he held. 

“Father…” Onmund’s voice is pinched.

“Excuse us, won't you, Dovahkiin?” 

Rufus looks to Onmund, waiting to take his cue from his partner. If Onmund wishes for him to stay, he will hold his ground. Rufus will do anything, for him. Anything Onmund wishes. Onmund squeezes Rufus’ hand, running his thumb across his knuckles, “Wait upstairs, okay?” 

Parting his lips to protest, Rufus draws them shut again. If Onmund wishes a word alone with his father he may have it. 

Turning to leave, back up the stairs, Rufus can't hide his surprise when Onmund pulls him back, pressing their lips together, brief, but unmistakable. His father shakes his head.

Back in Onmund’s room, he should not try to listen. Just as he should not have listened before. But Onmund and his father are not as quiet as they think. 

Rufus sits crosslegged in bed with every intention not to trace their conversation. But very quickly, he gives in, closing his eyes and listening to their vibrations below.

Onmund never answered Erens’ question, whether or not he is happy as Arch-Mage. 

“Son, we have not always agreed, but you know I love you. Your mother loves you too.” 

“This is the path I've chosen. You do not have to agree. But you can at least respect my decision.” 

“Your magic has not made you happy,” Erens says directly. 

“It is a great deal of responsibility, more than I expected. I wished to learn, not lead. But the Nine have put me along this path.” 

Erens laughs, “I'm surprised you have not denounced Talos. You are, after all, bedding an Imperial.”

“Father, you do not have to be unkind to him…” 

“I know you, Onmund. You wish to deny we have anything in common. But I raised you. I cared for you. I love you. He will not make you happy.” 

“He does. He does.” 

Rufus’ heart could burst, hot and sticky inside his chest, clinging to his ribs. The force of his love for Onmund in that moment, drugging him, making him delusional.

“The day will come when you’ll want a family, children, someone to come home to.” 

“You have known my preferences since I was thirteen,” Onmund bristles. 

“I do not care if he is a man. You may fuck who you like. The Nine know I cannot stop you. But Onmund, see reason, if he is the Dovahkiin,” Erens sighs, “you will never know peace...tell me now, do you want children?”

Silence is a simple thing. A devastating one. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“And this Rufus Cloelius, does he?”

“He loves me. I love him.” 

“Your mother says, he will not marry you.”

Rufus digs his nails into the soft skin of his arm, biting down, trying to keep from screaming. He wants to run downstairs, throw himself at Onmund’s feet. Be quiet! Just stop talking. Stop saying things that will break Rufus’ heart. 

“He will. When we leave here...we are on a quest to stop the dragons. Once that is resolved…”

“Son,” Rufus can hear it now, the tears in Erens’ voice. He loves Onmund, he loves his son so much. Even if sometimes he is an utter wreck at how to show it. “He is Dovah. It will never be over for him.”

“You're wrong,” Onmund growls. He turns from his father, stalking back up the stairs.

Rufus wonders if he should feign disinterest, keeping one hand dug into his own flesh, and the other fisted in Onmund’s sheets. Perhaps he should try to look busy, pretend he heard nothing. But Onmund is at the door so quickly, Rufus does not have the time to make himself look busy. 

“Onmund?” 

“You heard?” Onmund is breathless, his chest rising and falling with each word. “You heard everything, did you not?” 

“Yes,” Rufus will not lie, if it can be avoided. 

Shutting the door behind him, Onmund stomps into the room. He pushes Rufus down, his back flat against the mattress, pinning him down. Wrapping his hands around Rufus’ thinner wrists, he nails Rufus down, grinding his leg between Rufus’ thighs. “Then you understand why I wish for you to be loud?” Onmund’s eyes are dark, pupils blowing out his irises. 

Rufus nods, “How loud?” 

“Mama is outside, tending to the animals,” Onmund lets go of Rufus’ wrists, but only to wrench Rufus’ tunic back over his head, leaving his chest bare, vulnerable to Onmund’s ministrations. Onmund pinches one dark nipple between his fingers, squeezing down sharply and twisting until Rufus gasps. “I want her to hear as well.” 

This must mean all plans to bring Rufus’ brother here must be abandoned. Rufus cannot say he is surprised. It was a pipe dream, perhaps, to put so much faith in Onmund’s parents. In anyone, other than themselves. 

Rufus is still open, somewhat slick from last night, as Onmund plunges two fingers into him at once, only bothering to push his breeches down far enough to shove his hand in and reach around to Rufus’ hole. 

Open-mouthed, Rufus groans Onmund’s name, panting hard and squeezing down around his fingers. Onmund puts his teeth to Rufus’ neck, scraping against skin but refusing to bite down. Rufus spreads his legs as far as he can manage, still tangled in his breeches. 

Onmund’s mouth is at his ear, quiet for the moment, “You will forgive me, after, will you not?”

Just as quiet, as sweetly, Rufus assures, “There will be nothing worth apologizing for. I am yours.” 

Onmund jerks away, pulling Rufus’ breeches off and tossing them aside. He strips himself just as quickly, until they are just skin on skin. “On your stomach,” but Onmund’s hands are already at Rufus’ hips, flipping him over and dragging him up onto all fours. 

Their oil is still somewhere in the sheets. Finding it, Onmund slicks himself with one hand, dipping the thumb of his other past Rufus’ rim. Slow and steady, he pulls in and out, confirming what Rufus already knows. He is already loose enough to take Onmund whole. 

They fuck. Onmund pistoning into Rufus, keeping his arm wrapped around his waist to prevent Rufus from collapsing under his heavier weight. The slap of skin on skin is loud, but not as loud as Rufus’ moans of pleasure. Onmund asks him to be loud. So he is loud, chanting Onmund’s name. For a moment, he worries he has gone too far, half-shouting about how thick and long and fucking perfect Onmund’s cock is inside him. But while Onmund stops, just half a moment, he resumes his thrusts with greater enthusiasm once Rufus mewls, “Fuck me.”

Onmund’s hand fists in Rufus’ hair, pulling tight and keeping their bodies taut. Rufus snakes one hand under his hips, grabbing hold of his cock, trying to keep time with the thrust of Onmund’s hips into his. 

As Rufus’ comes, he makes certain that Onmund’s name is on his lips. Onmund spills into him, chanting, “Mine, mine, mine.”

“Yes, Onmund, always.”

Rufus waits for Onmund’s breathing to slow, for him to drag his cock back out. He can feel every inch of texture as it come free, leaving him empty. 

“I'm sorry,” Onmund says, gathering Rufus up into his arms. They are too big for the small bed, but Rufus does his best to tuck his body against Onmund’s. “I'm sorry,” Onmund kisses into Rufus’ hair, holding their sweat-slicked bodies close together. 

“Do not be sorry,” Rufus tilts his head to peck at Onmund’s jaw, cheek, lips. “You should know by now I am not particularly fragile.” 

“That's not what matters,” Onmund frowns. “That was so...unlike me.” 

“You were angry. That is not a crime.” 

“Yes but, I was not angry at you.” 

“I know,” Rufus shifts his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. While he is not fragile, he's not too proud to admit that, perhaps, between last night and this morning, he is sore. At the base of his spine and his hole.

“It was...petty of me. To want to punish my parents this way.” 

Rufus can't help but smile, “But I have been the beneficiary.” Even so, guilt weighs heavy in Rufus’ chest. Onmund’s father is not wrong. So much is asked of Rufus. Now. And the requests for aid will not cease when the dragons are defeated. As much as he would like to escape from his responsibilities, doing so at this point is impossible. 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Onmund cranes his neck, trying to check Rufus over for bruises and scrapes he may have inflicted. 

Rufus smiles faintly, “I would not say no to a healing spell, if you have the magicka?” 

Onmund’s eyes widen with concern, “Where?”

“My ass,” Rufus laughs. 

Onmund looks more scandalized by his own behavior than before, “I'm so sorry.” 

“Don't be, ah.” 

Onmund places his hand against the curve of Rufus’ ass, the heat of the spell spreading thinner and thinner over Rufus’ skin, blooming against where he aches, whisking away the dull throb of soreness as it settles and curls where Rufus needs it most. The sensation of it almost makes Rufus hard again. Even though it is not Onmund’s flesh and blood hand spreading him apart, anchoring deep inside of him, the magic is still terribly intimate. 

“Better?” Onmund asks. 

“Much,” Rufus smiles, “I knew you had it in you, you know? To be overcome by your passions.” 

Onmund reddens, “By the Nine, you are talking about those forsaken books again!” 

Rufus laughs, as loud as any sound that escaped him during their fuck, “You wanted them to be so wrong. But they were absolutely right!” 

Arguing, Onmund won't let the teasing go, “You know I'm not like that! I didn't mean...I'm always good to you. I try.”

Rufus skims his fingers down Onmund’s cheek, raking against the growing stubble, “I know, love. And you are.” 

“We should leave,” Onmund sighs, “I'm sorry. I ruined this.”

Rufus shakes his head, wrapping his arms around Onmund’s shoulders, “We will find another solution.” 

Onmund’s eyes drift closed, “He will have to come to the College. I'll find a way to keep him safe.” 

“First...Blackreach. We need that Elder Scroll.” 

“Yes,” Onmund agrees, “Yes, of course.”

They dress quickly, gathering up their things. Rufus scans the room, making sure they have everything. Once they are out the door, they both know there is no return. Onmund’s hand is on the knob when Rufus asks one last question. 

“Do you really want children?”

Onmund draws a harsh breath, “One day, yes. Do you not?”

“I'm afraid I know little about them…”

Onmund smiles, drumming his fingers against the knob, “I don't know much either. But we could learn, together?”

Rufus doesn't have the desire to tell Onmund anything other than, “Yes.” 

\-- 

The entrance to Alftand is buried under layers of snow and ice. Rufus draws his cloak tight around his shoulders, trying to keep the wind that rakes through the tunnels from creeping underneath and reaching skin. 

He throws out a ball of magelight, hovering by his side as he and Onmund head deeper down the ice tunnels. Rufus can feel them descending into the earth, following twists and turns, trying to find the Dwemer door they know must be buried in the folds. 

Rufus tries to listen for something, anything, that will lead them towards the ruins. If they dally much longer in the ice, he will freeze. Onmund conjures fire in his hands, keeping it close to help warm them as they travel forward. 

When they take a wrong turn, they find themselves face to face with frozen corpses, stacked high and bound together in frost. A journal sits to their side, leather bound and thin, no doubt filled with an accounting of their brutal fate. Rufus doesn't care. He knows how they died. The why is unimportant. He does not want to go out the same way. 

Rufus could scream with joy when they finally find the glit doors, shining coppery-gold and ornate. Rufus draws his hands out of his cloak, pushing open the heavy doors. While the mechanism does the rest of the work of pulling the doors open, Rufus reaches for his waist, drawing out his daggers. He must be ready to strike. 

Onmund shakes away the fire he has kept burning. The low-level spell, while continuous, has done little to drain his magicka. Rufus can hear the Sparks darting between his fingers, on the cusp of casting. 

The doors click into place, holding open so Onmund and Rufus can rush inside, before starting to slide shut again behind them. 

Two spheres, on either side of the high-ceilinged room start to stir, their metal joints grating. Their lubrication has dried up after years of disuse. Instead of gliding fluidly, they groan to life.

“Fuck,” Rufus curses. 

Of all the enemies he and Onmund have faced together, Dwarven constructs have, by far, been the most difficult for them. Nearly immune to magic, their metal shells also deflect Rufus’ blows. It becomes a game of deception and precision. Onmund draws their attention with Novice spells, while Rufus darts behind them, silently, near invisible in the shadows, slotting his blade into small gaps between sturdy panels, ripping out copper wiring that keeps the spheres bound together.

This time, they are able to make short work of the little robots. Rufus watches with glee as their pieces scatter across the stone floor. Once they are both felled, he claps his hands together, “We’re getting good!” 

Onmund smiles back, “I know!” 

Giddy from their victory, they push deeper into the ruins. 

\--

The elevator will take them down to Blackreach. Rufus is unsure what to expect. 

They are both bone-tired, having fought their way this far. Onmund slots his hand into Rufus’, squeezing down tight as they descend.

Rufus doesn't understand how there is anywhere deeper for them to go? At what point do they hit the core of the planet? Popping out the other side? But he holds on to Onmund’s hand, listening to the creak of the gears as they wind their way down, click by agonizing click. 

“Onmund?” Rufus pierces through the roar of the machine. 

“Rufus?”

Rufus turns, unlacing his hand from Onmund’s. He dips his fingers into the front of Onmund’s robes, feeling for the chain he already knows is there. Tugging sharply, he pulls the amulet out into the open, letting it rest flat against his open palm. 

“Are you looking to get married?” Rufus asks. He's not exactly sure what words are traditional. 

Onmund’s hand wraps around Rufus’, the amulet buried under bone and skin. “I am.” 

“Would you find it agreeable,” Rufus licks his lips, “to take me as a husband?” 

Onmund wraps his hand around the back of Rufus’ neck, pulling their faces close together. “Do not tease me. I cannot take it.”

“I'm not teasing. When we leave this place, let me be your husband.” 

The elevator hits the bottom, rattling the entire cage. The doors grind open, revealing the dark, heavy expanse of Blackreach. The void before them, lit softly with luminescent foliage and little else, stretches onward for what looks like miles. An entire, forgotten, civilization, rooted below the earth. These are the remains of a nation, a culture, that is so utterly foreign to Rufus, he doesn't think he can begin to understand. But he must learn to recognize their patterns, decipher how they lived, if they are to have any hope of navigating the Dwemer’s tattered, broken streets.

Turning back to face Onmund, Rufus waits for an answer.

“Mara protect us until that day.” Grabbing Rufus by the front of his cloak, Onmund pulls him close, kissing him firmly, before they must face the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands* I'm back.

Blackreach is terribly loud, but the noise never seems to bother Onmund’s less sensitive ears. Rufus does not know how to explain how every sound echoes through the vast underground caverns, bouncing off the crumbling buildings, threading through the gaps of long-rotted technology, the likes of which Rufus has never seen. Is never likely to see again. The cobbled streets scream when their boots tap against the stone. The racket comes from everywhere and nowhere.

And, like so many times before, Rufus and Onmund learn to fight again.

Bio-luminescent plants and fungi light their way, cracking through the path, curling around broken down stone-built homes. In the distance, always in the distance, there seems to be another sort of light. But no matter how far they walk, they never come any closer to its source. 

Rufus keeps a ball of magelight active, just a step ahead of where they tread. Though it may draw the horrible, sickly elves to their position, they cannot do without. Otherwise they stumble over uneven paths. Horrible, that Rufus can no longer navigate by sound alone. He has grown too reliant on the skill. 

He hears the Falmer’s footfall, yes, bare toes against the ground, rapid, staccato running, then stopping, hissing through their mangled teeth. But as noisy as they are, Rufus cannot tell their proximity, or the direction from which they may attack, until they are nearly atop their position. 

This is one such time.

A Falmer jumps from the dome above, long, bony fingers curled into vicious claws. Rufus can at least feel the shift of air as the Falmer descends, its aggression fixed on Onmund. Rufus is quick enough to draw his blade, shoving Onmund aside. He holds it out, waiting for the Falmer to fall upon the dagger’s edge through its own carelessness. Too late, it realizes the stupidity of its action, trying to wrench away and avoid Rufus’ attack.

Able to redirect its momentum the Falmer avoids a fatal blow. Rufus’ blade slices across the Falmer’s shoulder, instead of catching in its gut. Rufus crouches low, waiting for the elf to strike again, or run. He listens and watches for signs of more.

Onmund’s lightning spell crackles past him, striking the Falmer in the chest. The beastly thing forgot about its original target, its ire focused on Rufus instead. The electricity seizes its nervous system, leaving the Falmer in convulsions on the floor. 

It will live. Rufus grabs Onmund’s hand, and they leave. 

But they make it only two steps more, before three more Falmer crawl out from behind a broken house, the ceiling caved in and walls smashed open. Letting go of Onmund’s hand, Rufus leaps atop one crumbling wall, finding his footing on higher ground.

Onmund sparks off Chain-lightning, before stepping back. He has to keep distance between himself and the targets. Rufus must cut down the space in equal measure. He lunges from his perch, stabbing downward into the first Falmer. Onmund’s lighting catches him, forcing his grip tight around the blade. 

As the magic dissipates, Rufus strikes out again, smashing his elbow into the chin of the next Falmer that jumps at him. 

Beasts and constructs. But not men. Rufus must not let Onmund...but the Falmer. He doesn’t know. Even now, he does not know if it is kinder to kill them.

Before Onmund can ready his next spell, Rufus slashes fast with his knife, taking the final attacker to the ground. The wound across its throat is fatal, but will linger. Once it hits the stone, Rufus cuts with more precision, killing the Falmer quickly. The one he struck in the jaw will live.

“We should go,” Rufus rasps, still haunted by the decision he cannot make.

\--

Though they can see the Tower of Mzark in the distance, reaching the doors will take hours yet. The massive structure is lit by mushrooms that must be eight, nine feet tall, and glowing vines, clinging to the masonry. A beacon in the distance.

They can make it today, tonight, what time is it? They only need to push. Rufus drags Onmund forward, step after step, until his eyes are heavy and his feet raw.

“We must stop,” Onmund tells him. “Rufus, it is still too far.”

“It is only a little further,” Rufus slurs, though he knows Onmund must be tired. How long have they been walking? Battling back their attackers in fits and starts? His chest hurts, from where a Falmer struck him in the sternum. 

Onmund shakes his head, “Look,” he points out towards the tower. “We cannot be certain to find shelter, once we leave this...town?” They are not sure how to refer to the collections of buildings they come across. This was once a great city, perhaps. Testaments to a decimated civilization litter the landscape, but there are large, untouched areas as well. Overgrown and wild.

Rufus huffs. Onmund is perhaps right. In the lit patches up ahead, it is hard to make out any habitable structures. They may well exist, but Rufus cannot be sure. 

“Alright,” Rufus lets his shoulders drop, “We rest.”

Onmund squeezes Rufus’ hand and smiles. They will have to be careful, choosing where to sleep.

They find a building with four intact walls, and a metal roof. It is undistinguished otherwise, looking much like the other buildings in the colony. Onmund conjures lightning, holding it in his hands as Rufus opens the door. Inside is mostly dark, though the same dimly luminous plants that are outside have broken through the floor of the home.

Rufus steps inside first, his dagger drawn. He tries to listens for signs of life, hearing nothing. The house itself is small, an entryway, two sparse bedrooms, a kitchen with a copper pot, turned green and brittle by the ages. Rufus checks the ceilings as well, making sure nothing hostile clings to it, waiting to drop onto their heads. The house is uninhabited. Onmund, seemingly agreeing with Rufus’ assessment, closes and bars the door with a chair brought from the kitchen.

Sighing deeply, Onmund steps forward, wrapping his arms about Rufus’ waist and pulling him close. He smells of metal, damp, and salt. Rufus buries his nose in the junction of neck and shoulder, mouthing at the fabric of his hood and soaking in the heat that Onmund offers. 

Onmund reaches up, winding his fingers through Rufus’ hair, “You should sleep.”

Rufus does indeed feel very drowsy, unsteady on his feet. “Okay,” he mumbles into Onmund’s robes.

“But eat first. Or you’ll wake hungry.”

They ignore the battered kitchen for the sake of one of the bedrooms. Onmund unrolls their rations, holding out the open sack for Rufus to select what he wants first. They eat in silence, seated on the edge of the larger of the two beds. The bread is dry in Rufus’ mouth. But it cannot be helped. The apples help more than the water does. 

Onmund arranges them both, so that Rufus sleeps closer to the wall. He throws his arm over Rufus’ waist, pressing them chest to chest. Before too long, Onmund’s breathing evens out, as he passes into sleep. Rufus tries. He does. But though Onmund’s heartbeat is steady, soothing, and familiar, there is still too much noise.

Low, barely above a whisper, Onmund speaks, coming out of sleep, “Rest Rufus, please,” he runs his hand up Rufus’ back, then down to the small of his back. 

“It’s loud,” Rufus offers by way of explanation. Though he’s not sure Onmund will understand. 

Onmund presses the words into Rufus’ hair, “What do you need, love?”

Rufus grips hard into the fabric of Onmund’s tunic. He kisses at his neck, thinking. Onmund drums his fingers against Rufus’ spine.

“Lay on top of me,” Rufus suggests, “Like this.” Rolling onto his back, Rufus pulls Onmund on top of him, so they’re chest to chest.

Onmund plants his hands and knees, keeping his weight off of Rufus’ narrower, thinner frame.

“No,” Rufus shakes his head, “rest your weight on me. That’s the point.”

“I’m too heavy,” Onmund warns. Though they are similar in height, it is true that Onmund is much heavier.

But Rufus is certain he will not be crushed, “It’s alright, I think it will help.”

Onmund lets his weight rest on Rufus, little by little, though not completely. He tucks his head to Rufus’ neck, hot breath tickling at Rufus’ ear. Yes, that is good, drowning out the noise of Blackreach, reducing it to nothing but the roar of Onmund’s body, his warmth and love. 

“Thank you,” Rufus whispers. 

Onmund is asleep again, though even in his slumber, he supports some of his own weight on bent knees, bracketed on either side of Rufus’ thighs.

Soon enough, Rufus sleeps as well.

\--

Onmund operates the lenses, while Rufus stares into the Lexicon. This oculory does not function by magic, but at the press of many buttons. Onmund is meticulous in running through the combinations, judging how each button changes the arrangement of lenses, so that the Lexicon will inscribe.

Rufus perches himself on a stone ledge, crouched down and watching for any change. Onmund looks between the buttons and the lenses and back again. When the mechanism finally clicks into place, there’s little for them to do but wait.

“You meant it then?” Onmund asks, “when we return to the surface, we’ll head for Riften?” He adds, “To get married?”

Worrying his bottom lip, Rufus keeps his eyes fixed on the Lexicon. They should not delay. He made a promise. “Septimus Signus can wait for his bauble. Yes,” he smiles, “Let’s go to Riften.”

Onmund beams, the blue light off the mechanism making his eyes look unnatural. 

The Lexicon is all well and good, but they need to scroll so Rufus can learn the forbidden shout. As the oculory winds down, another tube descends, some parcel running through the glass. Rufus hops up, reaching out to tug at the tiny metal handle affixed to the tube. Pulling at it opens a compartment, a delicately crafted document canister inside.

The Elder Scroll. 

Rufus retrieves the scroll. Better that Onmund not touch it. Tucking it away into his pack, Rufus shuts the door and the tube retracts, retreating into the bowels of the Dwemer machine. 

Once the oculory is silent, Onmund takes Signus’ cube, placing it into his own bag around his shoulder. “Let us leave then,” Onmund says, his eyes soft once again.

Rufus kisses him before they leave, brief and sweet. He must get used to this. Used to the idea that he deserves this. That being this blissfully happy is acceptable. It is not his curse to be always blighted. He can care for his brother, and have this joy too. 

They board the elevator that should return them to the surface. The gears creak with centuries of disuse. But the Dwemer engineers were far too skilled to let their technologies fail on account of a force as petty as time itself. 

Rufus wraps both of his hands around Onmund’s, squeezing tight. Onmund’s hood is down, bunched up around his ears and his cheeks pinked with happiness. “Is there anyone you wish to tell?” Onmund asks.

“No,” Rufus admits. He wishes to tell his brother, but that’s an impossibility. He will know, soon enough. Once Aludin is dealt with and Skyrim is safe. “Do you wish for your parents…” perhaps he shouldn’t have asked.

Onmund sighs, pulling at the corner of his hood with his free hand. But he leaves it down, “I will send them a letter, afterwards. And one to the College.”

“Do you think that wise?” Rufus’ chest tightens. He still worries about his associations, and the doom that may spell for the College.

Onmund frowns, “As long as you are Dragonborn, the people of Skyrim will ignore everything else. If it becomes a problem,” he shakes his head, “We will deal with it then.”

Rufus huffs.

The elevator comes to a stop. Rufus can already feel sunlight, warming the metal ceiling above their heads. The gate slides open and Rufus steps out, his hand tucked into Onmund’s.

He should have been more careful. But Blackreach has left his senses addled.

It is not until she bashes the blunt end of her knife into Rufus’ skull, that he realizes Astrid descends upon them. 

How foolish.


	7. Chapter 7

Rufus groans, rolling from his back onto his side. Cracking his eyes open, he finds the room dim and empty. His hand have been bound with rope behind his back, but his legs are free. 

He pushes himself up so he’s seated, back against the wall. No doubt that this is Falkreath Sanctuary. He recognizes the hue of the stone. The subtle smell of rot, sweat, and herbs.

Onmund, no, no, where is Onmund?

“Astrid!” he shouts, assuming that she’ll come when called. If she wanted him eliminated, he’d already be dead. If she wanted him hobbled and terrified, she would have had a greater horror ready when he woke. Chopping at his feet. 

With just his wrists bound, Rufus can only assume that Astrid simply didn’t want him running off. “Astrid, what the fuck?” his voice bounces off the cell walls.

“I’m coming, hold your horses,” it’s not Astrid who replies, but Nazir. The lamp he carries casts shadows along the ground long before he arrives in front of the bars. Nazir sighs, shaking his head. He puts the lamp down to take out his keyring, opening the lock. “She’ll want an explanation.”

“She wants an explanation?” he hisses, “she knocked me out, again. And dragged me here, again.” He barks, “Where is Onmund?”

Nazir crouches down, gesturing for Rufus to turn so that he can work open the knot at his wrists. “Your lover, right? He’s fine. We have his magic dampened, but he woke up before you. He’s with Babette.”

Rubbing his raw wrists, Rufus pushes himself to his feet. They’ve taken his boots, and all his weapons. But it could be worse. At least they left his clothes on. “What is her fucking problem?” he asks, as Nazir heads out of the cell. He expects Rufus to follow.

“Did you really think you could ignore a contract that large?” Nazir shakes his head.

Rufus freezes, his heart growing tight. For a moment, he’s sure that he’ll pass out, crumple to the floor. He has told no one. Cicero knows, but Cicero is dead, as far as Astrid knows. Yes, Cicero could use knowledge of the contract to get back into Astrid’s good graces. But his loyalty is to the Night Mother, never to Astrid. Cicero, for all his madness, would not risk losing the Listener.

“You look like a dead fish,” Nazir observes, “close your mouth.”

Rufus snaps his jaw shut.

“Nothing stays a secret for long. Particularly in Solitude. It doesn’t matter that Astrid cannot hear the Night Mother. She has many other ears.”

Astrid is a fool. An incompetent one. But Rufus keeps his assessment to himself. She now knows about the contract. There is no point enumerating her faults to Nazir. “Oh,” is all he manages.

“Do I need to walk you all the way to her office? Or will you be a good boy and go?”

Rufus insists, “I want to see Onmund first.”

Nazir sighs, tugging at the front of his shirt, “I promise you, kid, he’s fine. She’ll let you see him after.”

Promises between assassins have little weight. But Rufus believes Nazir to be as honest as he can manage. That’s not much. But it’s something.

“She’ll use him as leverage, if she has to,” Nazir continues, “But you already know that, right?” It’s a simple threat, one without malice. But absolute. They are, at their core, amoral terrors in the darkness.

Rufus has no choice but to comply.

Resigned, Rufus continues on to Astrid’s office alone, counting out the steps as he walks. His feet are cold against the bare stone. The Night Mother says nothing to him. Perhaps she is cross as well, that her chosen son has not done his duty. Rufus shivers at the suggestion. He does not belong to her, or to Astrid, or to the people who trained him. Made him into this.

Astrid is not alone in her office, Arnbjorn leaning against the wall. His arms crossed over his chest, he stares Rufus down as he enters, brilliant eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Here I thought you’d never wake. I told her you were too weak,” he tries to cut Rufus’ confidence, as he always has.

Rufus forces a smile, showing his teeth, “Some of us need our beauty sleep. And you could do with a coma.”

Astrid only tilts her head to one side, her expression neutral, “You should go, Arnbjorn. I have something to discuss with our Thrush in private.”

For all his posturing, Arnbjorn would never disobey Astrid. Pushing himself off the wall, he heads for the open door. 

Rufus cannot help himself, “Woof, listen to your mistress.”

It’s impossible to miss the flash of fire behind Arnbjorn’s eyes. If not for Rufus’ value to the Brotherhood, he would have torn his throat out months ago. All teeth and claws and not a lick of sense.

Once the door is closed, Astrid responds, “You are such a fucking brat. And more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I’m worth more than this entire Sanctuary,” Rufus knows his words slice, because they are true. As much as he despises it, he is chosen. And she is not.

“You will do as Motierre’s contract says,” she seethes. “I assume you have already met with the fence. Besides, you are wealthy enough as it is, pretty Dragonborn. The wedding is in three days. Just enough time to travel to Solitude and make preparations.”

Rufus realizes she thinks him only lazy, or too preoccupied with his title as Dragonborn to fulfill his obligations to the Brotherhood. She does not think him a traitor to the order. She does not realize his ultimate loyalty is not to her, or the Brotherhood, or to the Night Mother, but to his Empire. She does not realize he would kill them all to protect his home. 

He never opened the scroll with the details of his assignment. He does not even know who falls first, of the dominos Motierre and his associates have arranged. But to give that away now would be a terrible admission.

“I take it we are clear?”

Rufus grinds his teeth, “Of course.”

“The Emperor's ultimate demise will be our crowning jewel. We will want for nothing.”

“And Onmund? Nazir said I would be able to see him, after speaking with you.”

She waves him off, “Of course. But he stays here. Until the Emperor is dead. We need a way to keep you motivated. You are too easily distracted, Thrush.”

Rufus squeezes his hands into fists, contemplating how easily he could kill her now. But Rufus is without his blades. He has his voice...but then, what of Onmund? Say he succeed in murdering Astrid. Unless he can get to Arnbjorn before Arnbjorn gets to Onmund. The others he may be able to convince. They may change their loyalty to the Listener. But Astrid’s mate will kill Onmund, given the chance.

“You know me,” Rufus quips, “I just don’t have the head for these things. I’m so silly.”

Astrid scowls at him, telling him to go see Onmund, if he wishes. But he must be enroute for Solitude within the hour. Nazir knows where his gear is. And he may have it when departing.

Rufus slips back out of her office, his heart racing. He hurries to the great room, seeking out Nazir. 

Nazir sorts through alchemical reagents, making note of what they are in short supply. His head turns when Rufus taps him on the shoulder. He hides his surprise well.

“For all my years with the Brotherhood, you are still the quietest man I have ever met,” he observes.

“Onmund,” Rufus says.

Nazir puts his inventory list down, “Of course, of course. As I said, he is with Babette. Let’s go see him.”

Babette and Onmund are in the training room. She shoots arrows into a body bag with a bow appropriate for her size. Onmund sits on the ground next to her, arms wrapped around his legs, commenting on her accuracy. 

“Onmund,” Rufus nearly weeps to see him safe. 

Babette lowers her bow, but otherwise does not stop them. Onmund leaps to his feet, rushing forward to wrap Rufus in his arms. He smells clean, freshly bathed. And only then does Rufus notice that he has changed into a soft tunic and breeches. 

“Rufus,” he kisses into Rufus’ hair, “they told me you were untouched, but I worried.”

Rufus tucks his face against Onmund’s shoulder, “I am fine. They did not hurt you?”

Drawing back mere inches, Onmund shakes his head, “Babette said I must drink the mana drain once every twelve hours while I am here. But otherwise, I’m not a prisoner,” Onmund scoffs, “where have I heard that one before?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Rufus says, cupping Onmund’s cheeks in his palms. “This is why...I didn’t want you to know.”

Onmund wraps his hands around Rufus’ wrists, pulling his hands away, “I do not blame you. I do not.” He kisses the inside of Rufus’ palm, “do not think that.”

Nazir interrupts them, telling Rufus it is time for him to go. They have already booked his passage on the first cart heading to the capital. Astrid is insistent that he depart.

Hurriedly, he kisses the corner of Onmund’s mouth, reaching to his neck. It's bare now. The amulet put away. He need not wear it, now that Rufus has said yes.

“I love you,” Rufus says. ‘I will figure out how to stop this,’ is the promise he wishes to make. But not aloud.

Babette assures them, “I'll keep him entertained!” Though Rufus shivers at what that might mean.

Nazir returns Rufus’ kit to him at the Sanctuary entrance, watching him as he slips his knives and poisons to their proper places. He wishes Rufus luck, for all their sakes.

Only once the door is sealed, when Rufus can breathe in the open air, does he reach into his pack. He finds the parchment from Motierre jammed at the bottom, smashed flat and ripped at exposed edges. Rufus’ hands shake as he unrolls the document. For the first time viewing the name of the first of Motierre’s victims.

Vittoria Vici.

The instructions continue. She is to die publicly. As she is wed.

Rufus shreds the parchment in a rage, stalking towards Falkreath, slamming his boots on each step. 

\--

Rufus arrives in Solitude with a day and a half to spare. To prepare. He takes a room at the inn, ordering wine, but no meal.

He drinks a second glass on his own coin. Then a third at the pleasure of another patron, who runs his hand up the inside of Rufus’ thigh and calls him lovely. Rufus laughs off the advance, but accepts the wine.

Only once his face is flushed and his stomach wrecked does he crawl into bed.

As he stares up at the ceiling, Rufus realizes what a fool he's been. The blankets scrape against his skin as he shifts. Trying to fight away his drunkenness. Rufus’ head spins. A fool. A fool. He should have spent his time searching for a solution. 

Rufus laughs into his cupped hands, then bites at his fingers. Tomorrow, tomorrow. He will solve the riddle tomorrow. To kill a bride at her wedding. A patron of the Emperor, and all he represents.

He wonders, how the scales of his life would have balanced differently, had his parents lived.

\--

In the morning, Rufus’ mouth tastes of sour rot. He rinses his mouth with water, before preparing for the day. His head aches and his stomach protests. But he still cannot think of food. 

Having only rented the room for a single night, he takes his belongings with him as he departs.

Rufus walks the streets with f Solitude for an hour, maybe more, in the early morning light. The sun catches in the film of sleep he still hasn't worked from his eyes. His feet take him to the Imperial armory, where he watches the blacksmiths work. They keep early hours, trying to fill their quota before the sun is too high and weather hot. 

He hops up on the wooden railing, leaning over to try and watch the work. The smell of molten metal keeps him from thinking too intensely about the churning in his gut. “Do you know if the General is in attendance?” he asks.

The blacksmith looks up from his work, sweeping sweat from his brow. His eyes narrow in Rufus’ direction, “How the fuck would I know?” 

Rufus shrugs his shoulders, “What are you working on?”

Instead of answering Rufus’ questions, the blacksmith bats him away. Rufus hops down from the fence, looking for another victim to torment.

“Is the General in?” he asks the first guard he sees.

While the woman is not particularly courteous, her grunt resembles a “yes.” And with that, Rufus ascends the stairs.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, pack thrown over his shoulder. Rufus is certain he must look a peasant boy. But farmhands are nowhere more welcome than in the service of the Empire. 

Another guard stops him at the top of the stairs, asking Rufus to state his business, before he is tossed from the grounds. 

“Tell the General,” Rufus sucks air between his teeth. There will be no turning back.

His path was carved out long ago. By forces beyond his control. The gods saw fit that he bleed the blood of dragons. And the Night Mother wished her voice always be in his ear. But Rufus would like to think, he is allowed to choose his allegiance in the wars of men.

“Tell the General that I am Rufus Cloelius. And I am here to see him. He will know the name.”

The guard eyes him from under his helmet, but heads inside to locate Tullius. Rufus keeps his hands hidden from sight, picking one nail against the other.

When the guard reemerges he says nothing, but leaves the door ajar for Rufus to enter.

General Tullius only glances up a moment from the map spread across the wooden table. Flags of blue and red are pinned in the positions each army holds across Skyrim. A box of miniatures sits at the side of the table, waiting for distribution. 

They are alone in the grand war room. And Rufus feels quite small.

“Dragonborn,” Tullius address him, plucking a miniature from the box. He curls it in his fist, preventing Rufus from seeing its shape. “Why are you here?”

There are options laid out before Rufus. He need only act on one.

“A favor for a favor. But you must agree today. And what I say here cannot leave this room.”

Tullius looks up again, frowning. The lines in his forehead run deep. “I cannot make such promises.”

“You must,” Rufus insists, “or is it not worth the favor of the Dragonborn?”

Tullius must believe, at least in this moment, that Rufus may join the Stormcloaks yet. It is the only leverage that Rufus has.

“I cannot let a legend bleed me dry,” Tullius argues.

“What I ask will not be arduous, I assure you. But I need your faith in me to be absolute.”

Tullius shakes his head, “You have not earned that trust.”

“But I will,” Rufus hisses. “Otherwise, this war will leave you in ruin.”

“Perhaps,” Tullius smiles, “I will not share what you say to me now. But I cannot exchange favors blindly.”

Rufus digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, “I have your word?”

“Yes.”

“Swear it on your family’s name, Tullius,” Rufus insists.

Tullius hesitates, “Can you ask that of me? When your name means so very little. It is not an equal exchange, Cloelius.”

“That is not how honor works.”

The smile returns to Tullius’ face, “I swear, on the honor of my name.”

It must be enough.

\--

Rufus slips into Vici’s private chambers, filled with imported flowers for the occasion. He laces her wedding gown with sweet smelling oil, disguising the bite of vicious herbs. He must be precise in its measure. If the poison takes to early, this plot will be for nothing.

He waits in the Temple of the Divines, hidden in plain sight, dressed in Imperial red. The Temple is dressed for the occasion. More spartan than Rufus’ admittedly foreign tastes. 

There will likely be no flowers at his wedding. If the blessed day arrives at all. But as he waits for the ceremony to begin, he thinks of Onmund dressed for the occasion, in the Archmage’s robes, his hair slicked back. Rufus in his diplomat’s attire. A union befitting both their statures. A celebration that will not come to pass. At least, not under the terms of Rufus’ childhood fantasies.

The wedding is quite lovely, until the bride collapses. 

With the occasion thrown into chaos, Tullius rushes forward, calling for a guard to help him. Rufus reaches him first. Tullius barks at the others to keep the guests under control.

Rufus helps Tullius carry the unconscious Vici to safety. 

When she wakes, the General will explain the plot on her life. They must keep the secret, that she yet lives. At least, for a little while. Only then will her assassin gloat of their success, grow bold, give themselves away.

On his way out of Solitude, Rufus shucks the borrowed armor. He trusts Tullius to keep his end of the bargain. 

He has other seeds to sow.


	8. Chapter 8

Rufus lays in wait, tucked into the corner of the empty room at the Bannered Mare. It will not be vacant much longer, as Rufus anticipates Gaius Maro’s arrival any moment now.

Downstairs, the Commander’s son drinks the night away. Rufus expects him to be quite loose and agreeable when he finally takes to his room. It is important that he not think a thing amiss, until it is too late to challenge Rufus’ authority.

And so, Rufus makes himself very small, keeping his mask pulled up over his face and squeezing against the wall, keeping his lithe frame flat to the wooden beams. With the lanterns blotted out, the shadows should take him until the moment is right.

He hears Maro coming down the hall, his heavy steps as indicative as slurred speech. Holding his breath, Rufus waits for his quarry to open the door, shut it soundly, sit at the edge of the bed to remove his boots.

Yet still, Rufus does not strike. The younger Maro puts his sword aside. He removes the knife from his belt, tucking it under his pillow instead. Once Maro removes his Imperial armor, setting it aside for the evening, Rufus seizes his opportunity.

He cuts in behind Maro’s back, as the man is hanging up his breeches. Rufus’s knife presses into the soldier's throat. But it is the blunt edge, not the razor.

“Do not scream,” Rufus coos into Maro’s ear. He can feel the fear reverberating through Maro’s body. He is tall and fit. Strong enough certainly to defeat Rufus in hand to hand. But this will never go so far. Maro may be a coward, too frightened to defend himself. “You will live. I promise you. But do not scream.”

“You're an Imperial?” Maro asks, swallowing thickly, the apple of his throat bobbing against the blade.

Rufus answers, “Yes. We are dear friends, Maro. You just don't know me yet.” He pulls the knife back, ordering Maro to sit down on the bed.

“What is it you want,” Maro puts his hand over his throat, rubbing at where the knife pressed into his skin.

“Your armor, your clothes, and for you to disappear for awhile.”

“What?” He has enough sense to be incredulous, “I am on a mission for the Emperor.”

“And so am I,” Rufus mocks. “You are out of your depth, boy,” he sneers. Though Maro must be older than him by at least a decade. With his face shrouded, Rufus hopes Maro doesn't notice. “Your clothes, your armor. And hide somewhere. Until your father calls you.”

“My father?” Even in the darkness, Rufus knows Maro’s eyes are wide. 

“Yes your father. You will give me your things and stop asking questions.”

“Who are you?” Maro presses, “Why do you not show me your face?”

Rufus hisses, “You will not like the alternative.” He shifts his voice, letting the clearness of his upper-class accent bleed through, “We are friends.”

Maro is still uneasy, but he strips from his underthings. Rufus takes the bundled up fabric from his hands, shoving them into his pack before picking up Maro’s armor. 

“You may wear these,” he takes a set of clothing from his bag, tossing it onto the bed. “Leave your other things,” he adds a bag of gold to the pile, to cover Maro’s expenses. “Find someplace where no one knows your face. And wait there for your father’s message.”

“But if he does not know where I have gone, how will he find me?”

Rufus sighs, “Do you doubt your father’s resources? His cleverness? Just go.”

Maro nods, finally conceding. Dressed in his plain, undistinguished attire, he takes the bag of gold and leaves.

\--

Rufus buys a quarter of a whole pig. He hopes the meat is enough. It’s disgusting, butchering the thing on his kitchen counter, chopping it into pieces unrecognizable and shoving sections into Maro’s armor.

He’s not certain the ruse is convincing, but hopefully scavengers and rot will mangle the “body” further before the guards find it. 

In the dead of night, he takes the makeshift corpse out to the square, leaving it in the marketplace. He smears blood around where Maro’s neck should be, suggesting that his assassin took his head. Leaving the letter on the body, Rufus departs, waiting for his next instructions.

\--

When Rufus hears nothing, not from a courier, not from Mother, he resigns himself to waiting. He considers returning to Falkreath, to at least see Onmund. To hold him, to know that his love is safe. 

But returning now would be a show of weakness. And he cannot let Astrid gather any additional ammunition. 

So, instead, he makes the journey back to Solitude, assuming his next mark will be in the vicinity. It is less than a week until the Emperor's arrival. Commander Maro has been detained, given his son’s involvement in the plot on the Emperor’s life. His Guard command has transferred to a less sophisticated officer. One the Empire believes loyal but with little experience. It is just as Montierre wanted. 

\--

Convincing the Gourmet to abandon his post is far easier. Rufus hands him a bag of coin in the basement of the drafty inn, in exchange for Balagog’s personalized invitation. No one in Solitude knows his face, the orc assures Rufus. Perhaps they will be overjoyed that “the Gourmand” is an Imperial.

Rufus scratches the back of his neck, his mask still covering his face, “For all you know, I'm a monster underneath,” he jokes. 

Balagog laughs, clapping his hands together, “only someone with a pretty face would make such a jest.”

“No one can see you leave the inn,” Rufus explains, “and I need to fake a body.” This time, a pig carcass won't do.

“Why?” Balagog asks, already packing up his belongings. 

Rufus tells him his things must remain behind. That is what the gold is for. With any luck, this whole business will be wrapped up quickly enough that Balagog can return in a week or two and hopefully recover his possessions.

“Because I'm supposed to kill you.”

Cracking into a wide grin, Balagog points out the obvious. “You're not much of an assassin are you? You can't be making coin on this deal,” he rolls the purse between his hands.

“I'll have you know I'm an excellent assassin,” Rufus rolls his eyes. “But I'm trying to change, be a better man.”

“For a girl?” the orc laughs.

“For a guy,” Rufus corrects. 

Balagog claps him on the back, telling him that he believes in him. Never too late to change.

\--

“Everything is in place,” Rufus whispers, his hood turned up, shielding his face from the Falkreath lamps. The noise from the tavern drowns out their quiet conversation. An Imperial officer conversing with a rogue is nothing strange.

General Tullius has been mindful to not wear anything that betrays his rank to passers by. He is simply an officer, like any other, enjoying his second mug of beer on a clear night, while a mouse whispers in his ear.

“And they suspect nothing?” Tullius sips from his mug. Inside the tavern, someone drops a platter and the room erupts in applause. 

Shrugging his shoulders, Rufus admits, “I do not know. I have not seen them since we last spoke.”

Tullius crinkles his brow, salt and pepper eyebrows drawing close together. “How do you receive your orders?”

Rufus hisses, “you said you would trust me.”

Tullius falls silent.

“You trust your men, yes?” Rufus asks, “and they have specific orders to spare the mage? And they know his appearance?”

“I told them,” Tullius assures him, before downing the last of his beer. He sets the mug aside on the wooden railing. “The Archmage will not come to harm.”

“If anything happens to him, the general the Empire sends to fill your vacant post will find you and your men in pieces, strewn about the countryside.”

Tullius quirks his lips, as if amused with the threat. Let him laugh. Rufus is perfectly serious. Onmund is the only thing in existence he loves more than his homeland.

“Send them in at dawn,” Rufus concludes. “I will meet them at the entrance.” He pushes away from the railing, following the path out of the settlement and to the edge of the woods.

Once dawn breaks, he will open the Sanctuary door for Tullius’ men. They have but one chance for this. The Emperor’s double is bedridden in Solitude, an aftereffect of the poison Rufus slipped into his soup. The poor old man will suffer some weeks yet, but in time his body will clear the toxin. A necessary hazard of the man’s profession. He was prepared to die on behalf of Titus Mede II, so having the shits for the next month is a small price to pay. At least a dozen in attendance had to watch the Emperor “drop dead,” and Rufus could think of no better concoction.

He waits for the night to pass, his back pressed against a sturdy trunk and legs bent towards his chest. Rufus rests his chin on his knees, staring out into the dark. The lamps of Falkreath are dim for the distance. 

He wonders if Onmund is asleep? If he thinks of Rufus? If he is afraid, or planning his own escape? His love has suffered so, on account of Rufus’ transgressions. On account of this debt Rufus must pay to a mother he never wanted.

Rufus wipes his nose with his sleeve. Even now, he's a silly child. There is nothing left to cry about. Tomorrow they will wipe out the Sanctuary. Strange the Dark Brotherhood for good. Though Rufus is uncertain if he will be free. The Night Mother has endured so much. Perhaps it is hubris to think that Rufus may bring about her final demise.

To keep from laughing, Rufus covers his mouth with his gloved hand. He wheezes in hysterics. Yes, this is the very definition of hysterical. If he kills Mother, will Cicero know? Will the jester find him, slit his throat in the night? Cicero loves Mother like Rufus loves the Empire, with a wild, dangerous abandon. 

Perhaps this is what it truly means to be godless. That the fear of the great, vast empty might devour all that he holds most dear.

Rufus doesn't sleep. As the sun begins to rise, he goes to meet Tullius’ hand-picked regiment.

This morning the General is dressed in full regalia, his armor buffed clean and catching the early morning light. Rufus resolves to tell him the truth of their relation, if they survive this battle. Then immediately takes his resolution back.

But Cassius. Tullius could protect Cassius. Could he not? Bring his long-lost nephew to Skyrim, hire him the best tutors, provide him with protection and comfort, if not love. Perhaps he could love Cassius. They are blood, after all. 

“The door, Cloelius,” Tullius commands.

Breathing deep, Rufus opens the door, two of Tullius’ men with broad, flat shields pushing through first. As soon as they breach the entryway, the screaming begins. Nazir. Nazir calling for the others.

Rufus dashes inside, pushing aside Tullius’ soldiers. His dark, hooded form is unmistakable to the Brotherhood members inside, they know instantly that they have been betrayed. And who it is that wronged them.

Dashing through the Sanctuary, Rufus hears the clash of battle behind him. As much as their rage must seethe, none of the Brotherhood dare attack Rufus directly. And he has his mind on different prey.

Astrid has locked her office door. Coward, coward. Rufus throws his shoulder against the frame, trying to knock the door loose from its hinges. Though the panels start to give, there is a roar and crash that takes Rufus from behind. Arnbjorn tackles him, taking the door down to crash against the floor with their combined weight.

The werewolf shifts into his more beastly form, the extra weight and muscle making it impossible for Rufus to break his hold. Foolish. Foolish. Rufus reaches for his belt. What he lacks in strength, he can still overcome with dexterity. The wolf is clumsy with its paws, though right now, Arnbjorn is doing a hell of a job with those claws, shredding through Rufus’ armor like paper.

Rufus cannot even register that he is bleeding, gripping his dagger firmly in one hand and stabbing into the back of Arnbjorn’s neck until the beast howls in terrified pain. Rufus wrenches the blade out, stabbing a second time into the soft cartilage of Arnbjorn’s ear.

The beast has enough life left to slash across Rufus’ face, cutting across his eye and nose, in a diagonal swipe down to his chin. Rufus lacks even the power to scream. The blood loss has already made him dizzy. The weight of Arnbjorn’s carcass on top of him makes it hard to breathe.

Rufus hears a crash, far away, as if coming up from the bottom of a well. When he opens his eyes, he sees nothing. Light and shapes moving through a thick fog. And voices. Ah, Onmund’s voice. And the smell of lightning,

What a silly series of mistakes. After so much careful planning. Rufus should have slept last night. Then perhaps his head would have been clearer.

A woman screams curses. And then she is quiet. 

A vial put to Rufus’ lips, cool and sweet. Onmund murmurs that he’ll pay attention in Restoration from now on. Rufus still thinks it's silly the Archmage goes to lessons. But Onmund loves learning so much. Maybe more than he loves Rufus.

“Mother,” Rufus finally coughs, once the drought has done its work. “I have to see Mother.”

“Rufus,” Onmund cautions. Only then does Rufus realize his head rests in Onmund’s lap, the fabric of his trousers thick and scratchy. “The Imperial troops-”

“Cannot destroy her. It must be me,” he tries to push himself to his feet. Onmund, resigned to Rufus’ stubbornness, helps him stand.

Astrid’s corpse lays face down on the floor, the back of her skull singed black, blood pooling around her head.

The smell of Onmund’s spell has been replaced by that of fire and ash. Burning, they're burning the Sanctuary down. Good. This is as it should be.

Onmund helps him to Mother’s casket, though there is nothing wrong with Rufus’ legs. Though, perhaps he needs the assistance, he still feels dizzy-drunk.

The lid to the coffin is sealed tight. Rufus tries to pry it open with his fingers. When it doesn't budge, he pounds on it with his fists, screaming, “Mother, Mother.”

The troops, they are searching the Sanctuary. Looking for something. Rufus doesn't know what, he doesn't care.

“If you ever loved me,” he pleads, “let me in.”

The latch comes open, Rufus pulling the lid to Mother’s tomb wide open. He stumbles inside, throwing his chest against the body of the corpse.

Onmund does not try and stop him, waiting patiently, but ready to strike, his casting hand tense. Rufus wants to tell him he has nothing to fear. If Mother wishes to kill him here. There is nothing either of them can do.

“I would tell you I'm sorry,” Rufus explains, “but I'm not.”

Yet you still embrace me, Mother tells him, after all these years.

“You ruined my life,” he screeches. And he must sound mad. Onmund cannot hear Mother’s voice, her taunts. Her cruel intentions. “You stole me. Tore me apart,” his chest heaves. “And for what? For what?” Drawing back, he plunges his blade, still bloody, into the center of her chest. He knows it is not enough. He must burn her, scatter the ashes, salt the earth. Nothing should grow from her bones. 

For love, my sweet. You wanted to be loved.

Rufus has heard enough. He leaves his blade buried in her ribcage, throwing himself away from the corpse. He stalks to where knows Nazir keeps a store of lamp oil, under one of the shelving units. Onmund trots along behind, silent and face drawn.

With the oil can in hand, Rufus douses Mother’s body, though it is a dangerous task, flames still licking all around them. She catches fire quickly. But Rufus must ensure that this is his doing.

He concentrates on flames, trying to heat his palm. Since dropping the ruse of being just another student at the College, he has not tried to make magic. But in this moment of rage and loss and utter despair, he feels the burning so acutely, so savagely under his skin, that the embers come. Small and terrifying in their intensity. He tosses the spell into the casket, watching Mother ignite in a brilliant flash.

Exhausted. Oh, Stendarr, he is so, so tired.

Onmund pulls him away.

\--


	9. Chapter 9

Rufus wakes to the sound of rain, heavy droplets sheeting down against the single, tiny glass pane set into the stone wall. The sudden downpour makes it impossible to sleep. His eyes fly open and he jerks up in the bed. He feels wild, cornered in a strange place, unable to recognize the room. Gripping tightly to the sheets, he keeps them wrapped around his body as he climbs out of the bed. 

The floor is icy cold against his bare feet and when he stands his head spins so soundly he has to sit back down. He nearly sobs in frustration at his own weakness, until he sees the Imperial flag pinned to the wall. The sounds of soldiers going about their daily routines stream in through the cracks in the walls, underneath the door frame. 

He tries to slow his breathing, to tell his body that he is safe. But before he can calm his nerves, the Sanctuary and what transpired there comes rushing back to him. The smell of burning flesh and caking blood. The screams of anguish from the slaughtered. Onmund’s arms wrapped around his waist as he lost his footing. Mother’s face as she transformed to ash. 

Crumpling, he slides from the bed onto the floor. The memories are so fast and vivid, he starts to retch. At least then, he can no longer hear the sounds that are not there.

“Rufus,” Onmund comes through the door, rushing to Rufus’ side. He grabs Rufus’ loose hair in one hand, pulling it back and out of the way. Mumbling sweet affections, he promises Rufus that they are safe. They're together and well protected. He should go back to bed.

Rufus shakes his head, managing to get his hand to his mouth to wipe away the bile. He feels somewhat better now that his stomach is fully empty. Onmund helps him to his feet, and out of the muck he's dredged up. 

“Tullius. I must speak to him,” Rufus croaks. Hopefully, the General has not yet departed.

Onmund rubs his back, guiding him back into the bed. “He has asked about you. That there was one more thing you were meant to tell him.” He fusses more than he should, combing through a pile of dirty clothes to find a shirt he can wipe Rufus down with, before trying to arrange the covers over him in a way that looks presentable. 

“Yes...ah...please, it must be now.” Rufus has little idea how long he's been asleep. Rubbing against his jaw, he feels no more than a day’s worth of excess stubble. That at least is a relief. 

Leaving to fetch Tullius, Onmund kisses Rufus on the forehead before he goes. An enlisted man arrives first, to clean up the mess on the floor, and Rufus stammers an apology. The soldier, for what it's worth, is unfazed, tidying up quickly and without conversation before departing.

Rufus wipes at his mouth again, though there is nothing there. Tullius enters shortly after without knocking. Dressed in trousers and a soft tunic, he looks a great deal less imposing than he does in armor. There is a dagger at his waist, but otherwise he appears unarmed.

“The Arch Mage told me you had woken,” Tullius says as greeting.

Rufus cuts through any pleasantries. There is still one exchange left between them. The one he could not entrust to Tullius before being certain he is a man of his word. And, in exchange, Rufus as Dovahkiin, will publicly declare his allegiance to the Empire.

“You will retrieve a boy from Cyrodiil City.”

Tullius smiles, “And what are your plans for this boy?”

Shaking his head, Rufus explains, “I have no plans. You will take him, Tullius. He is already of your house,” his chest constricts. He must be exceedingly careful with his phrasing, as to explain his brother’s position, without giving away his own. “Your nephew, Cassius. He lives.”

Narrowing his eyes, Tullius goes curiously still, his hands clenched into fists. He does not believe Rufus. At least not yet. 

“Your brother’s son, yes? The assassins kept him as a prize. I will tell you his location. Provided that you swear to protect him.”

Equally cautious with his words, Tullius challenges him, “Why would you share this information? Why would you care?”

“I was still a child myself when he was taken….like I was taken before him. They will make him a murderer. His training is almost complete. Is it so unbelievable that I might have sympathy for an innocent?” Rufus snarls, “the younger, he was pretty, wasn't he? With gray eyes. You will recognize him, surely.” Truly, Rufus is not angry that Tullius cannot recognize him. He is plain, unremarkable in appearance, with no distinguishing features. But Cassius, the only thing that matters now is that Tullius can be convinced to take him.

Tullius’ eyes soften, and Rufus realizes he is incredulous, not because of Rufus’ intentions, but because he long ago deadened himself to the family that he lost. Believing anything other than the boys were killed was too painful. And Rufus has torn open a wound long sealed.

“And this is your last request?”

Rufus nods, “Once Cassius is safe, I will do what you have asked.”

Shaking his head, Tullius agrees.

\--

Onmund is recalled to Winterhold. The courier had been at a loss for a week, unable to locate the Arch Mage. With a polite smile, Onmund only says that he was indisposed. And that the courier should return to the College quickly, to inform Tolfdir that he will be enroute. He pays the courier generously. Both for the return trip and for the trouble he encountered in trying to locate Onmund.

“I would have rather gone to Riften,” Onmund curses, packing up the few personal effects he has strewn about the borrowed barracks room. A spare pair of boots, freshly laundered tunics, and the socks be bought in Falkreath. So utterly mundane. 

Rufus draws his knees close to his chest. They cannot travel together. At least not yet. He must await news from Cyrodiil. For the time being, he will travel with the General to Solitude. The location of the Thrush’s major assets has already been sent south with one of Tullius’ most trusted men. And yet, Rufus is still uneasy, though he understands that Tullius cannot travel to the capital himself.

“We will go,” Rufus promises, picking at his nails, “I want to go.”

Onmund beams at him, his face one of uninhibited joy at the prospect of finally being wed. Laughing, he crawls back into bed, bracketing his body over Rufus’ before pressing their lips together. “I can only hope to make you as happy as you have made me.”

Though Rufus knows it rude, he snickers. As if it wasn't Rufus who followed Onmund around like a lost pup at the beginning of their courtship. He wanted to know Onmund’s affections so desperately, just looking at him drove Rufus mad with want. If not for Rufus’ stubbornness, they could have been wed months ago. Marriage is such a simple affair in Skyrim. But his worry over Onmund’s newly elevated position in the College made him question the appropriateness of their match. Even now he worries, even with his connection to the Night Mother severed once and for all. 

Rufus touches his fingers to Onmund’s jaw, urging him to stay close, even after their kiss has broken. Though he knows Onmund must depart today, he hopes to delay his lover at least a little longer. 

Wrapping his hand around the back of Onmund’s neck, Rufus holds him still as he brings his lips to Onmund’s ear, “You’ll have me, won't you? Before you go?” They have not laid together since coming to the barracks, though they have shared a bed. Rufus has been somewhat fragile since the destruction of the Sanctuary. He is unsure if severing his tie with Mother has made him weaker, or if the ailment is simply in his head. 

But with the prospect of yet another separation, Rufus feels himself ache across the distance not yet between them. He tries to roll his hips up against Onmund, still perched on all fours above him, but finds himself too tangled in the sheets to properly move.

Onmund dips his head to press his mouth against Rufus’ throat, trailing kisses back up towards his jaw. The touch is clumsy, hurried, Onmund asking in between breaths what Rufus would like?

“To not decide,” Rufus pleads, “tell me.”

Onmund frowns, shifting down towards the foot of the bed so he can pull the sheets off of Rufus. The cool air in the room chills him at once, biting into skin that was kept warm by trapped heat. But soon enough Onmund is on him again, running his hands down Rufus’ sides in a vain attempt to warm him up. Nothing will do better than the rigor of sex, and Rufus tries to make his point by spreading his knees.

Onmund reaches down between his legs, fondling Rufus with unhurried strokes, before dipping lower to brush against the underside of his sac and hole. He thumbs the seam that runs between the two, exerting a soft pressure that makes Rufus gasp with need.

Throwing his head back against the mattress, Rufus tries to even out his breathing. He feels himself already at his edge, the stress of losing Onmund again palpable across his skin. Shifting his hips, he throws his legs around Onmund’s waist, pinning his hand between their bodies. Onmund laughs, burying his face into Rufus’ shoulder, muttering about how he can't move.

“Good,” Rufus teases, “then you can't leave me.”

“I don't want to,” Onmund responds. “You could still come with me.” Though he cannot move his arm enough to stroke, he can at least get his palm wrapped around Rufus’ shaft again. His own erection, still tucked away in his trousers, presses into Rufus’ hip.

Rufus mouths, “can't.” And hopes that Onmund doesn't push the subject. He plans to tell Onmund about what he and Tullius have planned only after Cassius is safely in Tullius’ custody. They both agreed that it is better to transport him to Tullius’ country estate for the time being, away from the clutches of the Thrushes hidden in the shadows of the capital. Bringing him to Solitude is out of the question. If Rufus sees Cassius again, if only for a moment, he will never want to let him go.

Rufus knows this choice means he will never see his brother again. He has made peace with the knowledge. However bleak.

“Loosen up,” Onmund urges, tapping with his free hand against the outside of Rufus’ thigh, “you wanted me to take control, did you not?” He lets Rufus change his mind, if he wishes.

But pliantly, Rufus unlocks his ankles from behind Onmund’s back, letting his feet fall back onto the mattress. Onmund has to get out of bed to fetch oil, but apologizes so sweetly upon his return that Rufus almost sobs. 

Slicking his fingers into Rufus, Onmund lays his other hand on his stomach, pressing down to create more pressure. His hands are unnaturally warm, but Rufus is too dazed at first to realize that the heat is magic.

“If only I knew last year this was the way to shut you up,” Onmund teases, spreading his fingers inside and curling, working Rufus until he starts to pant.

Rufus is too pleased to really argue, “You liked the attention, admit it.” He arches up as Onmund starts to withdraw his fingers, chasing the sensation he begins to lose. “Who wouldn't want to be pursued by the Do-vah-kiin,” he emphasizes each syllable.

Onmund smiles as he shoves off his slacks and slicks his cock with the oil. “Someone with common sense.” Pressing the head of his cock to Rufus’ hole, he pushes in, halting when Rufus starts to tense. He rubs soft circles into Rufus’ abdomen, coaxing him to relax. “And yet...here we are,” Onmund is breathless as he finishes pushing in.

Rufus feels so warm and full and wanted that he almost manages to forget. Forget the expectations still placed upon him. The tightrope that he still walks. Onmund rides into him, their hips slapping together on each thrust. Rufus keeps quiet now, knowing that there are those who occupy the rooms adjacent to theirs. Wrapping his arms around Onmund’s neck, he promises again to be his husband. Though with each passing day, something else keeps them from Riften. Keeps dragging them apart.

Soon enough, it will be time to use the Elder Scroll. To learn how to shout down a dragon. And Rufus is terrified, at his core, what it will mean to tear a dragon from the sky. Their blood is his blood, is it not? And if it is inside him….

“Darling,” Onmund kisses against Rufus’ neck, “stop thinking. I'm here.” Wrapping one hand around the underside of Rufus’ thigh, Onmund hikes his leg up higher, until Rufus throws his limb over Onmund’s shoulder. Like this, the angle is better, allowing Onmund deeper on each languid stroke of his cock. 

Tilting his head, Rufus catches Onmund’s eyes. Bright and blue and steadier than he deserves. Carrying him from the shore of restlessness and out to sea.

\--

There is little in Solitude for Rufus, except for waiting. Tullius has lodging arranged, and orders armor, both ceremonial and something more practical for the field. Rufus argues that what he wears is already tailored to his specifications. He has made it quite clear that he works best from the shadows. With a hefty sigh, Tullius explains that he need only wear Imperial red on specific deployments. Otherwise, he expects that he will have very few official missions for Rufus.

It is not that Tullius doubts Rufus’ skill in combat. But he is most valuable to the Empire as a figurehead, a morale boost to be deployed at strategic junctures. Knowing now Rufus’ connections to the Dark Brotherhood, and the Thrushes, Tullius agrees it is best that they not let too many eyes linger on him for very long, Dragonborn or not. A few token deployments every month or so until the war’s end should be sufficient. And Tullius promises that the quartermaster will outfit him as an archer, rather than a frontline soldier.

“The new recruits will think nothing of it,” Tullius explains, “but veterans will see the assassin in every slice of your blades.”

Rufus is thankful that Tullius is a practical man.

No matter how much time they spend together, Tullius never remembers him. Never questions how Rufus knows that Cassius is his nephew. Never remarks on how Rufus’ nose looks a bit like his brother’s.

Onmund sends him letters. They come once a week, sometimes twice. The Stormcloaks are encroaching on the College, despite their declared neutrality in the war. They have taken Winterhold, something Rufus learned of from Tullius as well. For the time being, there is nothing to be done about the settlement. They are sympathetic to Ulfric’s politics. And while a direct attack on the College would be seen as an unwarranted aggression, Tullius cannot slaughter a town full of backwards Nords just to reach the mages.

“Will the Arch Mage swear loyalty to the Empire?” Tullius asks, one eyebrow raised.

Rufus must tell the truth, “No, never. But he also will not side with Ulfric.”

They are at an impasse.

“But his sympathies, as a man?” Tullius pushes. He has a glass of liquor in one hand. 

Rufus is on his second as they discuss the situation. The twisting in his gut will not abate. And now volume of liquor will drown out his worry. “Are, always, with the College.”

Tullius sighs in disapproval, before offering Rufus another drink.

\--

It takes three weeks before they hear confirmation of Cassius’ safe arrival at the Tullius estate. A little lost noble, returned to his rightful house. Like a fairytale.

Rufus weeps for him, overjoyed that his brother is finally safe, where he has always belonged. And he tries not to cry over the life he lost, as he would gladly exchange himself for Cassius again, and again, a hundred times over.

“Dragonborn,” Tullius has come to collect, “I have fulfilled my end of the deal.”

There is a crowd assembled for the momentous event, gathered in the courtyard below the fortress balcony. They have been told that today, the Dragonborn swears his allegiance. It is not a claim made lightly. And Rufus backing out now would ruin Tullius politically. So, while in his heart, Rufus knows this is the wrong declaration for the Dovahkiin to make, he also knows it is the right decision for himself. 

The armor chafes, though it has been made for him. Rufus keeps his helmet on his hip, certain that the Imperial troops and curious observers will want to see his face. Already, he feels too exposed, and Tullius has yet to throw open the doors.

He wishes Onmund were here, to stand by his side. But, ultimately, it is safer, better that he is far away. Though there are repercussions sure to come. Ones that neither of them can map.

Breathing deeply, Rufus nods to Tullius, urging him to open the door. The General steps out onto the balcony first, into the crisp, cool air. But the voices below have but one name in their mouths. Dragonborn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated.
> 
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


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